Page 23 of Grave Matter

“No. It’s not for me to analyze. It’s for you to analyze.”

“Okay. What else?”

“I’d like you to stop taking your medication for a couple of weeks.”

I stare blankly at him. “Why?”

“I think you’ll sleep better.”

“I need it to function,” I tell him, feeling a little panicky.

“Stimulants can be very helpful, but from the symptoms you describe, feeling tired despite sleeping, not having an appetite, I think we can manage your ADHD through behavioral therapy. You’re only on ten milligrams. That’s something we can try to manage without drugs. And that diary should help.”

I shake my head. “No. I need to be able to think while I’m here. I need my brain at its best. I need to concentrate on my capstone.” I lie about the last one.

“You’ll be fine. I promise. Just a couple of weeks, and if you don’t see a difference, go right back on them. You have to conserve them anyway.” He pauses, licking his lips, his gaze sharpening on mine. “Don’t you trust me?”

I feel my breath hitch in my chest. “I don’t know you,” I whisper.

“Haven’t you ever trusted someone you don’t know before?”

“Yes. And it never ended well.”

He nods slowly. “I understand. Well, then I’m asking you to trust me, Sydney Denik. I only have your best interests at heart.” He swallows. “Please.”

I find myself agreeing. “Okay.”

He gives me a genuine smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle, lines along his cheeks lighting up his face for one brief, beautiful moment.

Wow. I can’t help but smile back.

“I won’t let you down,” he says. Then he coughs lightly and turns his attention back to the pad of paper, the spell between us broken. “How are you getting along with the rest of the students?”

I shrug. “Uh, I mean, I’ve made some friends, I think.”

“Does that come easy to you? Making friends?”

“Define friends,” I say wryly. “I seem to get along with most people. On a surface level, anyway. I think I’m easygoing and fun. People seem to want to be around me…”

“And below a surface level?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows and steepling his fingers together.

I fall silent at that, digging deep. “I think I have a hard time keeping people engaged. Because even though I feel like I’m honest, I’m also holding the real me back.”

“You’re masking.”

“Yes. Not consciously. I have to know someone and trust them to let them see the real me, and when I do, that’s when I often lose them.”

“I bet the real you isn’t that different from the one that people see,” he offers quietly. “Sometimes others pick up on the fact that you’re masking, and so they think perhaps they aren’t worthy of being shown the true you. It’s not always about people not accepting who you are. Sometimes it’s about themfeeling like they aren’t good enough for you or worth your time. Sometimes people just want to feel worthy of being let in.”

I rub my lips together as I think that over. I’d never thought of it that way. “Maybe,” I concede.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze so inquisitive that I have to stare down at my nails. Normally, I’ve picked them raw, one of my stims, but lately, they’ve been looking good. I’d paint them if my polish didn’t chip after a day.

“And how are you dealing with the lack of communication and internet?” he finally asks.

“It’s only been three days,” I inform him. “I’m fine.”

“You let your friends back home know where you are, of course.”

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