My brain still feels foggy, but my stomach drops at the hazy memory of how Oliver had brushed me off.
He hadn’t even given me a chance to tell him what was happening. There’s a part of me that hopes he would have acted differently if he knew, but an equal sized part wonders if that’s true.
The boundaries we had set were to protect him, not me. His job, his reputation, his career, it’s all on the line if anyone finds out about us. There’s every reason to think that he wouldn’t risk any of that just because I was in pain.
I can’t rely on Oliver any more than I could rely on my mother, or my sister. I was stupid to think that I could after we established the secrecy of our relationship. Day one and there I was trying to break the rule we set.
My phone pings again and I pull it out of my bag. It was never an alarm. Messages from Oliver flash on the screen.
Oliver: Are you okay?
Oliver: Madison, what happened?
Oliver: It’s been hours, I’m sorry I brushed you off, but Dausset was right there.
Oliver: I’m in my office, come see me. Please.
I don’t want to go. Not like this. Not when my brain still feels foggy, and I know I need another few hours of sleep—preferably on a bed this time. Not when I don’t know how to feel about what happened in the library.
If I go, all I’ll want to do is crumble into him and rest in the comfort of his arms. But I can’t. Never on campus. That’s what he said. That’s what we agreed.
I push my hair back from my face, rubbing my eyes with my palms.
Madison: I’m okay.
The reply is blunt, but it’s all I feel like giving.
MADISON
The sun is still too bright this morning, despite the overcast grey cloud cover. After sleeping the rest of the day away yesterday, I woke up this morning feeling groggy, and panicked.
My first assignment is due at 5 p.m. today, and so far, all I’ve done is jot down some references to support my case. The 500-word essay should be easy, and I had planned on spending all day yesterday writing and polishing it. That plan dropped off a cliff, but if I write 100 perfect words an hour, I’ll get it done on time.
Inside the library, I pull my dark sunglasses off my face. The world blurs for a moment as I trade them out for the clear frames I usually wear. Finding a seat, I open my laptop and spread the photocopied texts out. I spend too long reading and re-reading the question. Longer still trying to form a solid opening paragraph. I can write a 3000-word creative piece at the drop of a hat; this essay should be a walk in the park.
But it’s not.
Trying to convey my own thoughts whilst also backing up every claim I make with an appropriate reference is like trying to fact check the world building of a fantasy novel. Long, arduous, and impossible.
After an hour, I’ve only written 80 words. Half of those don’t count. References, subheadings, my name.
“Fuck.” I whisper the words to myself as I drop my head to the desk. Thankful that I chose a table deep in the corner of the library, I close my eyes and give myself ten minutes to refocus.
I allow myself a moment of self-pity. Doubt spreads through me, squeezing at my rib cage. If I hadn’t spent the weekend with Oliver, I would have made more progress before the migraine hit yesterday. I might even have finished the essay. Instead, I wasted away my time, getting lost in the feel of his body. Imagining a world where we could be together.
Just months ago, I never would have fallen into such a fantasy, but something about Oliver has me digging this hole myself. And it needs to stop.
My neck aches, my brain is fuzzy, and bricks settles on my shoulders. I know what I need to do, but asking for help is going to hurt. In more ways than one.
Madison: Professor Fraser, I need to discuss something with you. Can we meet this afternoon?
Dancing dots appear as he writes his reply.
Oliver: Madison, are you okay?
Madison: Yes, I just need some assistance.
Oliver: My office? 3.30 p.m.
