Page 11 of Deranged Imposter

Then there is Mikah, going about his days as if law school is a walk in the park.

However, as I look over at my desk, I know he holds himself up to an impossible standard.

Books cracked open with folded corners, scattered handwritten notes with yellow-highlighted lines, inkless pens in the bin beside the desk leg, and his laptop ajar charging overnight.

Focusing again on his slumped back, I comb a hand through his fluffy hair. He’s tired; exhaustion rewriting itself under the sleeping façade, muscles stiffer than they were at yesterday’s gathering at his family home, and the pent-up strain of being in his childhood bedroom again.

He always talks to me after being in the room; it’s the only way he can find some semblance of peace to relieve his thoughts of Zico.

Not last night. We came back to the dorm, and he went to sleep early.

I mull over the thought and sigh quietly, my stomach aching at the stress he’s putting on himself. The weak part of me wants him to put a pause on law school until he can address the trauma weighing on him. It hurts to see him wearing himself down, finding distractions in books, and avoiding things that remind him of Zico.

A break is what he needs. Just himself and a new view, cleansing darkness from his mind and finding forgiveness in his heart.

I shake his shoulder again and watch carefully when his tired eyes flutter open, promptly hardening into a glare as he peers at me from the corner.

He’s the one who needs at least thirty minutes to start functioning normally. Every time I wake him up, at his request, he looks at me like I’m the buzzing fly by his ears.

His intimidation doesn’t faze me anymore.

I brace a hand on the bed beside his waist and stand, moving swiftly to the closet where my clothes are pushed to the side. I filter through his, mumbling under my breath about the spectrum of his neutral-colored outfits.

“Did you pull an all-nighter again?” I ask as I pluck a shirt from the hanger.

He grunts deeply. “What’s for breakfast?”

Of course, he avoids answering that. While education is important, I would still prefer him to rest after being swamped by Zico’s memories.

“Poison.” I scoff and toss the shirt at him.

He catches it, arm muscles bulging as he brings it down to his lap. I watch him throw the shirt over his head, lingering on the span of nebulous ink that he got on his eighteenth birthday.

Mikah does things with a purpose, and I can only guess it’s a tribute to Zico since he’d never had an interest in tattoos before. The inked design doesn’t resemble anything; maybe it’s a secret between the brothers. They were twins and extremely close to each other. There were rivalries, pettiness, and overall childish antics, but they never truly fought.

It’s abnormal. Not a single fight, barely an argument. The worst was when playful banter got heated, and somewhere a competition fueled the fire.

“I’m fine,” Mikah grumbles, brushing past me to leave the room, bound for the bathroom.

Pushing the matter further only makes him withdraw more. I go into the kitchen and finish plating our breakfast, listening closely to the motion in the other room. He comes out after refreshing himself, pants hanging low on his grooved hips as his shirt rides up to flash a hint of abs.

He keeps running his hand through his hair, profound thoughts tussling on his face as his brows furrow. Blinking from my inquisitive gaze, I motion for him to sit and eat before it gets cold.

Breakfast is calm and quiet, neither of us wanting to disturb the peace. He asks about my plan for the day toward the end of the meal, his finger sliding across the tablet that’s synced with our calendars for better communication in case one of us can’t let the other know about altered plans.

I can’t meet him for lunch today; my group mates finally found a small timeframe to meet up and hunker down the details for our final Ozark National Forest trip. He wants me to meet him inside the law building before dinner, saying he needs to restock his pens and notebooks.

“Am I allowed in there?” I question, tipping back the water glass to my lips.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” His gaze lifts briefly before concentrating on the details in the daily calendar.

Our university’s pride is the law students. I lost count of how many exceptional students graduated and became intense lawyers down the road. Some don’t have the public’s interest at heart, but they do outstanding work for their paying clients.

Three hundred dollars an hour better deliver satisfying results.

So, I lay it on him. The building itself is farthest from the main campus, likely to stop unwanted disturbances. The area has its own social hierarchy and rules, somewhat of a cult if I’m being honest, and the students walk with sticks up their asses.

Students who aren’t pursuing law are not respected. I avoid that place, not too keen on people judging me for…everything, really.

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