Focus

Timothy’s replied: Whatever. We need to talk tonight. 

I look at my screen, my hands curling around my phone, pressing it until I can feel it vibrate in my palm. 

I look out the window, my chest deflating. A voice in my head batters me, reminding me how stupid I was to trust him. 

I’m so tired, and my eyes close. I try to sleep, shifting restlessly between the leather seats until we reach Aton. 

The dorms are decorated. Garlands hanging from the door frames, the windows glowing green, purple or blue—the different House colours. Two students hand out flyers at each House door about Saving the Dolphins or something. 

Each House has its own party going on and there’s always a competition between students to see who can attend the most parties without any teacher finding out. 

Last semester I won it alongside Timothy, and I remember how his hands entwined in mine every time we met in a different dorm party, electricity flying between our fingers, and no one else the wiser. 

It happened the day after Timothy took a photo of the two of us kissing, and in the drunken darkness of the party that night, I begged him to delete it. 

I shake my head, trying to clear the memory from it as I head to my room, almost losing my balance from the effort.

Boris, my roommate, sits cross legged on my bed when I come in, his phone pressed to his ear. 

“…but you know how deeply I care for you,” he says between bites of toast.  

I groan as soon as I hear the words, knowing instinctively this call is going to last forever. I hear his girlfriend’s voice over the phone, her version of a whisper, “But do you, though, if you hate my parents?”

He starts, “I don’t hate them...” and I pull him by his feet off the bed. He barely rises as I move him, settling into the floor like he’s always belonged there. 

I pick at his toast, watching as his eyes glaze over me. My hands feel like deadweight. I crawl into the bed, lying on my back. When I look up at the ceiling a line of pain shoots up my spine, somehow painful and relaxing at the same time. 

I stare at the little squares separating the ceiling, and music filters in through the closed door. My phone buzzes. 

Alexander: Are you coming tonight? I plan on drinking till I drop. 

I smile despite myself, a tremor passing through me as I remember the way he looked at me in this room earlier. I stand, suddenly energetic, and start getting ready for tonight. Fear and desire assaulting me in equal measure. 

~

I text Jasmine: How are you doing? But the message doesn’t go through. 

I start moving into the hallway. 

“Liam!” Boris shouts from behind me. I turn, and he’s standing and moving towards me. 

“I’ll call you back, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice and lowers his phone. 

I wait for him to look at me, then ask, “What?” 

His eyes close for a second, like he’s trying to calm himself down. “What the hell is wrong with Timothy?” 

My heart drops. I can’t take all this shit anymore. “Wha–what did he do?” 

Boris rolls his eyes before speaking, “He came in here a while ago looking for you. Showed me a photo of my girlfriend and said he’d hurt her if I said anything.”

His mouth twists up into a sneer. “He seemed so wired, bro.”

I take a seat by the door, lowering my head into my hands. My mind immediately flashes to the photo he sent to me just minutes ago—the kiss, the message preceding it: You should break up with Jasmine. 

“Wait, why did he threaten to hurt you? I’m confused,” I look up at Boris while speaking. His blue eyes have turned hard, and I watch as his eyes trace over me—accusingly.

I’ve never seen Boris so angry, in fact, I’ve never seen him angry—at all. 

“Beats me,” he shrugs. His phone rings again, and he picks it. “Warn your friend. If he tries that again I will report him. I don’t care if his father’s the mayor or not.” 

He turns before I even speak, raising his phone to his ear, and speaking animatedly into it again. 

I leave the room, determined to find this boy and find out where he’s getting all these photos from. 

My millionth mistake: I go alone.