Chapter 5
1339 Words
Mickey tried to go about her day, willing herself to shake off the tight, sour feeling curled in her chest. Her mind was a blur—thoughts spiraling, disconnected, looping endlessly as she tried to understand why anxiety had gripped her so suddenly, so completely.
Her parents noticed.
"Are you okay?" they'd asked at least five times throughout the day, each time met with only a small nod from Mickey. No words. No real answer.
"Teenagers," her mom muttered under her breath, irritation threading through her voice like static.
At dinner, Mickey barely touched her plate. She swallowed hard and quietly said, “I… I’m not very hungry. Can I please go to bed?”
Her dad glanced at the clock, eyebrows twitching. “Right now? Mick, it’s only 6:30.” There was a tremble of concern in his voice, soft but present.
“You feel alright?” he added, trying to meet her eyes.
Another nod. Nothing more.
She left before the table was even set, retreating down the stairs to her room like the walls themselves might protect her. The moment the door shut, she grabbed her phone, unlocking it with trembling fingers. She hoped—needed—there to be something. A message. A missed call. Anything.
There was nothing.
Her chest ached. Her thumb hovered over Sam’s contact. She texted first: Call me when you can. Please.
Nothing.
It had only been 24 hours since their fight, but to Mickey, it felt like time had stretched, like the distance between them was bending reality.
She dialed. The phone rang. Once. Twice.
“Sammie’s phone! Leave a message!” chirped the familiar recording.
Beep.
Mickey’s voice came out fragile and small. “Call me. Please.”
She hung up.
For hours, she stayed up—blanket wrapped around her legs, phone cradled in her hands, screen lighting up her face in the dark. Each time it dimmed, she tapped it back awake. Waiting. Hoping.
Eventually, sleep found her. It was restless, choppy. Her dreams felt strange, shifting—like they belonged to someone else. She woke tangled in the sheets, heart pounding, the blare of her alarm piercing through the fog.
Groaning, she threw an arm over her eyes.
“Mick, you’re gonna be late!” her mom shouted from upstairs.
She didn’t move. A few minutes later, her door flew open.
“I don’t have time to deal with your mood this morning. Get up! Let’s get a move on!”
Mickey groaned. “I don’t want to go today. I don’t—”
“If you say you don’t feel good, I swear—” her mom snapped. “Now get up.”
“Well, I don’t,” Mickey mumbled into her pillow.
She dragged herself out of bed, barely making the effort to look human. Threw her hair into a loose ponytail. Jeans. T-shirt. No makeup. No energy.
By the time she made it upstairs, her mom was already in the car, waiting. Mickey grabbed a banana, her bag, and slipped into the passenger seat. The buckle clicked. She sighed.
“Today’s gonna suck. I can feel it.”
When they pulled into the school parking lot, Mickey's eyes flicked to the space where Sam’s car usually sat. It was gone—replaced by someone else’s beat-up silver sedan.
Her stomach dropped.
“Have a good day. I’ll be late tonight,” her mom said, unlocking the doors.
“Uh-huh. You too,” Mickey murmured, climbing out and shutting the door behind her.
She walked toward the front entrance, her limbs heavy. She paused at the door, gripped the handle, and took a long breath in. Let it out slowly. Then stepped inside.
She decided to head straight to her favorite classroom: Mr. Damon’s, up on the second floor.
The staircase to his room was wide and open, positioned in the center of the school so you could see the entire lunchroom and part of the commons as you climbed. At the top, just for a moment, you could also catch a glimpse down a side hallway—the one that led to a quiet corner where Sam and her friends usually hung out.
As Mickey reached the halfway point, she glanced down that hall.
Sam’s friends were there. Laughing. Scrolling their phones. Talking like nothing was off.
But Sam wasn’t.
Mickey’s brow creased. Her stomach turned again.
Where are you?
A dull ache bloomed behind her temples. Questions started churning—fast, sharp, constant.
By the time she reached Mr. Damon’s class, she was already exhausted.
Mr. Damon was a man frozen in time. His classroom looked like a shrine to the '60s and '70s—walls covered in psychedelic colors, peace signs hand-drawn by students over the years, vintage rock posters mixed in with science charts and motivational quotes. A lava lamp sat on the windowsill, casting soft red blobs on the walls. Only half the fluorescent lights were ever on, giving the room a cozy, lived-in feeling. It smelled like old wood, patchouli, and dry markers.
Mr. Damon sat behind his cluttered desk, glasses perched at the edge of his nose, scribbling on papers with a red pen.
“Hello, Mick,” his voice rasped gently.
She immediately felt safer. Like she could breathe again.
“Good morning, sir.” She walked over to his desk, ignoring the handful of students quietly chatting near the back.
He looked up, blinked, and then narrowed his eyes slightly. “Are you alright?”
“Me? Yeah, sure. Why?” she answered too quickly, a little too high-pitched.
He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “If you think I don’t know you by now, you must think you’re funny too.”
She chuckled, a real smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s Sam,” she said, exhaling.
“Ah,” he nodded, turning back to his paperwork briefly, giving her the space to decide if she’d keep going.
After a moment, he glanced up again. “Well, pull up a chair. We don’t have all morning.”
Something about the way he said it loosened the knot in her chest. She grabbed a seat and sat beside his desk.
“We had a huge fight. Well… not huge. Something’s wrong. She’s been talking so weird lately,” Mickey began, words tumbling out faster now. “Like… she said she’s seen what this world has to offer, and she’s not interested. She wishes she were on another planet.”
She whispered the last part like it was a confession. Like saying it too loud might make it real.
Mr. Damon’s soft blue eyes shifted—like glass frosting over.
“Did she say anything else?” he asked carefully.
Mickey shrugged. “Just more silly things. But her mood’s awful. She’s quiet. And she told me I need to ‘listen with my soul.’”
Her voice dropped, skeptical. “What does that even mean?”
He leaned forward slightly. “Well, I don’t know Sam as well as you do. But that… doesn’t sound like her. She’s usually bubbly, loud. A bit of a firecracker, right?”
“Exactly,” Mickey muttered. “Could it be the partying?” she added, the edge in her tone betraying how much that bothered her.
He shook his head slowly. “No. For some, maybe. But not her. Not like that.” He tapped her forehead lightly. “You’re thinking with this.”
Then he moved his hand down, hovering a finger over her chest.
“Try thinking with this. Listen with this. Your mind’s trying to make sense of it, trying to be practical. But your heart already knows something’s being said underneath the words.”
Mickey blinked, chewing on the thought.
Before she could respond, the bell shrieked, and she jumped slightly.
“Jeez!” she gasped, hand on her chest.
Mr. Damon stood up and clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone! Into your seats. We’ve got lots to learn today!”
- Writer
