Page 9 of The Misfit

“Don’t,” I plead, but she’s already half turned in her chair.

“I thought the library was for studying,” Marcus taunts, his voice dripping with fake concern. “Shouldn’t she be in a padded room? What if she loses it again?”

I hate that my only option is to leave, but I won’t subject myself to this crap. Sinking deeper into the confines of my mind, I push out of my chair and allow my body to move on autopilot. Each item needs to go into my bag in the right order—laptop, textbook, notebooks, pencil case. If I focus on doing it perfectly, I won’t hear them.

Won’t feel the weight of their eyes on me. Won’t remember how it felt when?—

“That’s enough.” Bel’s voice cuts through the whispers, sharp as broken glass.

I look away from my backpack and find her standing, all five-foot-four of her blazing with quiet fury. Marcus meets her gaze for half a second before he falters.Pussy.Everyone knows crossing Bel means crossing Drew Marshall, and nobody wants to be on the wrong side of the most influential graduate of Oakmount.

Even with Drew having graduated, his shadow still looms over campus politics.

“Guess I wasn’t aware you befriended psychopaths?” Marcus sneers at Bel, drawing on false bravado.

“Not only do I befriend them, but I date them, too.” She smiles, tipping her head toward Drew who wanders closer to our little tableau. Drew gives Marcus a small wave and a terrifying smile. How does a quiet bookworm end up with the psychopath football player? Something tells me there’s a story there.

Marcus mutters something under his breath and walks off with his friends in tow. The pressure on my chest lifts as soon as he’s gone. I can finally breathe again. It doesn’t change anything. The damage is already done. The perfect order of my morning is shattered, and no amount of reorganizing will fix it.

“I’m sorry… I know it’s not my place to apologize for their shitty attitudes, but I feel the need to,” Bel says softly.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it, and I was getting ready to leave, anyway.”

Bel watches me with apprehension. “Don’t leave. Don’t let him win. You have as much of a right to be here as he does.”

“It doesn’t matter if I have a right to be here. I don’t belong.” My voice cracks, and the honesty in my words is soul-piercing.

“Yes, you do,” she counters, and there’s no point in arguing with her.

“Thank you for your kindness, Bel, but I know I don’t, and I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted it. I have another class soon anyway.”

Bel frowns. I know she’s trying to save me and make me feel better, but nothing can save me from reality.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to meet up somewhere else, then. Do you want to get a coffee sometime?”

“Sure, let’s figure out a day.” I don’t bother telling her it will never happen. Bel is kind and a great friend…but she doesn’t need someone like me as a friend.

“Okay, I’ll text you, and we can figure out a day.”

I give her a nod. “Sounds good.” I watch as she walks right into Drew’s arms.

It’s crazy how different everything is now. The library used to be my sanctuary, back when I was just another honor student with a bright future. Back before I became the campus cautionary tale.

My gloved fingers trace the edge of the desk, counting the nicks in the wood, grounding myself in the reality of now versus then. How I used to share notes in study groups, raise my hand in lectures, and walk across campus without counting my steps or checking door handles three times before touching them.

I suppose that’s what trauma does to you. It takes all your good parts and destroys them, shatters them, so you can never put yourself back together the way you were before. I’m still me, in the same body, with the same skin and eyes, but I’m not me at the same time. Change is good; it’s an inevitable part of life. That’s what my therapist says. And I understand that, but I also wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.

Returning to campus reminds me of everything that I used to be, everything I used to have. It’s progress, a part of the journey and recovery, but it feels like a punishment in many ways. I pull out my phone and open the calendar app, checking my schedule even though I have it memorized.

Statistics at eleven, followed by British literature at two. Eight hours of classes a week, perfectly spread out to allow for recovery time between social interactions. It’s a carefully constructed house of cards, and one strong breeze is all it will take to send it tumbling down.

The screen blurs as I stare at it, and I realize I’m thinking about last night.

About a dark pantry and a boy who didn’t look at me like I was broken. And how, for just a moment, with his finger tracing my lip and his soft voice caressing my ears, I felt closer to normal than I had in a very long time.

But normal isn’t for girls like me anymore.

Normal walked out the door two years ago, along with my dignity, my future, and any chance of being more than the weirdo who wears gloves, counts her steps, and hides in pantries at parties. I close the calendar app and start repacking my bag. Everything needs to be in its place, in perfect order. I might not have control of my life, but at least I can control this.

---