“Can you put shoes on?”
I slowly ease out of the bed, my aches increasing with every movement and making my breath hitch. I screw my eyes shut, forcing myself to walk. Every step is pins-and-needles, making me break out in a cold sweat.
“Almost there,” Kodi encourages lightly.
I slip my feet into my sandals, my heart pounding with the meaning of this. I’ll have to go outside.
“Eyes on me,” Kodi instructs.
My gaze snaps to hers, and I focus on my friend as she coaches me out the front door. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway bite into my eyes, and I squint before stopping. My head spins as I lift a hand to my temple. “Wait.”
“Can I touch you?” Kodi asks.
I nod.
She slips her arms around my waist before helping me to the elevator. She stops at a vending machine, grabs a granola bar, and offers it to me. “Try,” she begs.
I take it, my fingers shaking as I rip into it and take a bite. It tastes like dust in my mouth, but the painful rumble of my stomach only urges me to take another hearty bite as I chew.
“Doing great,” Kodi whispers.
We make it to the exit doors, and the moment she opens them, the outside air whips into my lungs. It’s spring, my favorite time of the year, but I haven’t even had a moment to soak it in.
We stop a few more times, giving me a chance to catch my breath before the counseling building comes into view. It’s a brick building with a blue sign near the door. I’ve walked past it a hundred times, but never imagined walking into it.
My feet falter on the steps. Kodi doesn’t say anything this time. She just stands beside me.
After a long moment, I whisper, “What if they think I’m being dramatic?”
Her answer is immediate. “They won’t.”
“And if they do?” I urge.
“Then I’ll write a strongly worded letter to the dean.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches.
We climb the steps. Inside, it smells faintly of coffee and something citrusy. The lighting is soft, and there’s a water feature trickling quietly in the corner.
The receptionist looks up with kind eyes. “Hi there.”
My throat closes.
Kodi steps in. “We’re here for a crisis walk-in.”
The receptionist’s expression shifts, gentle but professional. “Of course. Come on back.”
The word crisis hits again, but softer this time. She slides me a clipboard. The paper trembles in my hands. I stare at the blank space for too long.
Reason for visit.
Kodi leans close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. “You don’t have to write everything,” she murmurs. “Just enough.”
My pen scratches across the paper.
Nightmares.
Can’t eat.