6
1147 Words
HILLARY
I walked into the study area after my Literature class, the little folded paper feeling like a burning coal in the front pocket of my cardigan. I couldn’t focus in class. The professor’s analysis of Romantic poetry had blended into the image of Jason Grey, looking intense and serious, placing a drawing next to me and walking away.
I found a quiet corner bench and immediately pulled the sketch out. I unfolded it carefully.
It was me. Not the smiling, put-together girl my mum wanted, or the invisible student I tried to be, but the real me—the startled, vulnerable girl who had just fallen down and was staring up at the world with giant, terrified eyes.
The detail was breathtaking, especially the eyes. They were wide, capturing the shock and the embarrassment. It wasn't just a likeness; it was an observation. It proved that he hadn't just seen the clumsy mute girl; he had seen the emotion beneath.
He knew I loved quiet, yet he didn't use his voice. He used art, a language I immediately understood. And the accompanying text on his phone: No need to reply. Just an observation. It was the most respectful, non-pressuring form of communication anyone had ever offered me regarding my silence.
I tucked the sketch back into my cardigan. It was a precious secret.
I pulled out my writing pad, needing to physically process the mess in my head.
Jason Grey (Magazine Boy): He saw me. He used my favorite form of communication (visual art). He respects my silence. He called me beautiful. He is confusing and terrifying and fascinating. Problem: He makes my heart race and makes me want to try to speak. This is dangerous.
Chase Alexander (Brownie Guy): He is loud, distracting, and calls me 'Brownie.' He demands friendship but gives loyalty. He doesn't treat my silence as a flaw, just an obstacle he loudly ignores. Problem: He is a necessary distraction, but he is incredibly nosy. I cannot, under any circumstances, tell him about Jason.
The conflicting feelings were giving me a headache. Jason represented a deep, quiet connection I secretly craved. Chase represented the surface-level, easy interaction my mother wanted for me.
The door burst open, and Chase walked in, already talking. "Brownie, guess what I just saw? That Economics grad student, Jason Grey, was giving some girl a serious, intense talk, and I think he was threatening her!"
My stomach plummeted. Jason had said he had a 3 PM lecture in the Economics Wing. Was that the "talk" he had mentioned on his phone? And who was he talking to?
I picked up my pen, my hand shaking slightly. What are you talking about?
"The drama! I was walking past the main noticeboard, and Jason was talking very intensely to some girl blonde, looked scared, maybe even crying? Then he stormed off toward the stairs. Seriously intense. He looks like a model, but he's got that dark, broody vibe, you know?" Chase shuddered dramatically. "He's gorgeous, but maybe a little toxic. You should stay away, Brownie."
He was talking to a blonde girl? My relief that it wasn't a confrontation with Chase was immediately replaced by a surge of painful jealousy, quickly followed by confusion.
Are you sure it was him? Maybe he was just talking on the phone.
"Positive. I heard his voice. Deep, serious, kind of demanding. Like he was laying down the law. Trust me, my Senses are tingling. He's bad news."
I tried to rationalize. Maybe he was arguing with a fellow student over a project. Maybe it was Chase's imagination. But the memory of Jason's intense expression when he passed me was too strong.
Did you see what the girl said?
"She didn't say anything! She just kept shaking her head, kind of like you do." Chase then immediately pulled me into a new topic, detailing a bizarre scenario where Professor Woods secretly ran an illegal underground fighting ring.
I laughed, genuinely. Chase was infuriating, but he was also a wonderful, noisy shield. I spent the next hour letting him fill the silence, burying the image of Jason and the crying blonde girl deep down, next to the secret sketch.
That night, the nightmares were worse. I woke up gasping, sitting bolt upright in my four-poster bed, the silence of the massive room suddenly suffocating. I couldn't distinguish the real memory fragment (the crushing metal) from the anxiety-fueled additions (the silent faces of my biological parents).
I knew I couldn't go downstairs and risk running into my parents and triggering a barrage of concerned questions. I reached for my phone, instinctively looking for distraction.
I scrolled through my texts, seeing Chase's last message: I'm totally going to get us matching Brownie mugs, FYI. Don't run away tomorrow.
Friendship. That was safe.
Then my eyes landed on the name of the sender who had sent the single "Hi Chase" text—the one that started it all.
I looked down at the sketch tucked into my cardigan. I felt the paper through the soft fabric.
I was exhausted, panicked, and sick of the secrets. I needed to tell someone about the constant fear, the waking up in a cold sweat. I couldn't tell my parents; their hopes were too fragile. I certainly couldn't tell Jason, who was currently involved in mysterious, intense hallway arguments.
The only person I had was Chase. The loud, over-the-top, slightly obnoxious friend who, for some reason, accepted me without question.
I typed out a message to him, then deleted it. I had a bad dream. Too vague. I have nightmares about a car crash. Too much.
I finally settled on a compromise, a small, tiny c***k in the wall.
[Hillary]: Chase. I woke up early. I had an episode.
It was honest, and it used the clinical term my therapist had given me, minimizing the dramatic detail. I hit send, then immediately regretted it, terrified of what his loud, dramatic response would be.
The reply came back instantly.
[Chase]: Dude. You okay? Text me exactly where you are. I'm there in 10. Seriously.
No jokes. No excessive emojis. No 'Brownie.' Just simple, solid concern.
I stared at the screen, tears blurring my vision. Maybe the loud guy wasn't just a distraction. Maybe he was actually a friend.
[Hillary]: I'm fine. Just needed to say it out loud. Don't come here. Just... thanks.
[Chase]: Okay. But if you change your mind, text. I mean it. Go find some of that quiet you love. We’ll be loud together tomorrow.
I put my phone down, the anxiety finally ebbing. I felt safe enough to try sleeping again, the weight of the nightmare shared, and the secret sketch still safely tucked away.
But the real challenge was still coming. I had a very intense sketch in my pocket and a friend who knew about my breakdowns.
- Writer
