Page 119 of Hard Knot

Until someone finds me?

Until I wake up from this nightmare?

My legs carry me forward on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me through the labyrinth of Harvard's halls. Each step feels like moving through molasses, my body growing heavier as the heat builds.

Something sticky slides down my inner thigh, and the realization of what it is makes bile rise in my throat.

Slick.

The word comes unbidden, though I've never used it before. Never needed to.

I'm not supposed to be this.

This isn't me.

This can't be happening.

I need to hide. Just hide and let it pass.

It has to pass…right?

The construction area looms ahead, sealed off by yellow caution tape and temporary barriers. I duck under them without hesitation, my shoes crunching on sawdust as I enter the half-finished wing.

The air here is different — thick with the smell of fresh paint and new drywall. It helps mask the sweetness pouring off my skin, and gives me something else to focus on besides the inferno raging through my veins.

An unfinished room catches my eye — four walls but no door yet, the floor still bare concrete.

Perfect.

I stumble inside, collapsing against the furthest wall. My hands shake as I pull my phone from my pocket, the screen blurring as I try to focus.

Who can I call?

Mom? Dad?

The thought makes something close to hysteria bubble in my chest.

How do I even begin to explain this?

James?

My finger hovers over his name in my contacts. He'd help. I know he would. Even with our rivalry, even with all the tension between us, he wouldn't leave me like this.

But the thought of him seeing me this way — desperate, needy, completely out of control — makes shame curl hot and heavy in my stomach.

What would he think of me?

The straight-A student, the perfectionist, the girl who challenges him at every turn...reduced to this quivering mess on a concrete floor.

A sob escapes me as I curl into myself, wrapping my arms around my knees as if I can hold myself together through sheer force of will. The concrete is cool against my overheated skin, but it's not enough.

Nothing is enough.

"Please," I whisper to no one, rocking slightly. "Please make it stop..."

But it doesn't stop.

The heat builds and builds, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Each inhale brings new scents — dust, paint, my own desperate sweetness — until I'm drowning in sensation.

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