When the Professor first mentioned the workshop, I thought she meant another classroom-level thing. You know, twenty students, maybe a TA in the back pretending to take notes while scrolling through Instagram. Chill. Manageable. My kind of crowd.
But no. Of course not.
She leaned forward during our debrief meeting, hands clasped, voice way too chipper for what she was about to drop:
"We want you and Ethan to lead the next workshop again," she said. "But this time, it'll be open to faculty, parents, educators from outside the university—even a few names from the national education board."
I blinked. "You mean like... professors and... people from the national education board?"
"Well," she smiled, "if you give your all once, who knows, you might end up getting recruited?."
She was joking. I wasn't.
That night, I didn't sleep. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. My head was full of worst-case scenarios: me stumbling through a sentence, Ethan watching silently as I crumbled.
Two days later, I got a forwarded email from my mom.
From: Prof.To: Radhika Varma ([email protected])Subject: Invitation to Attend Workshop at UC Berkeley
Dear Mrs. Varma,
Your daughter Alexis has been doing exceptional work in our psychology department. She and her partner, Ethan, will be co-leading our upcoming mental health workshop for students, faculty, and special guests. We would be honored to have you attend, should your schedule permit.
Warm regards,Professor N.
Beneath it, my mother's one-line reply:
We're visiting next week. We'll be at the event. Your father is very proud.
And then, before I could even process that emotional landmine:
Aditya will also be joining us. I invited him. He was very enthusiastic.
Of course he was.
The week leading up to the workshop felt like being trapped in a pressure cooker.
Ethan and I practically lived in the psych building. Our second home became the campus library's back room—dim lights, whiteboard covered in scribbles, one squeaky chair that always made it sound like we were farting when we leaned.
"We need to trim this segment," I said, staring at our workshop script. "We're going over the time limit."
Ethan glanced at my laptop. "Which one? The stigma and language slide?"
"No, the interactive scenario with the mock therapy session. We're spending 12 minutes on it. That's too much."
He chewed on his straw thoughtfully. "What if we condense the case study into bullet points and have audience members reflect instead of role-play? Same concept, less time."
"That could work," I muttered, already editing the text box.
"Also," he added, eyes on his notes, "we need a stronger transition between section two and three. It feels like a jump cut."
"That's because it is. I didn't have time to write a segue. Got distracted by Amelia's romantic chaos."
Ethan smirked. "Jonathan is very clearly in love with her. It's honestly impressive how blind she is."
"She knows. She's just... Amelia about it."
He laughed, and it made the air feel less like lead for a second.
Every day we met, something new broke. A slide that wouldn't load. The projector crashing. Our schedule being bumped forward by an hour.
"It's fine," I said on Thursday when Ethan discovered half our graphics weren't rendering properly.
"No, it's not," he groaned. "We used that janky online converter, didn't we?"
"I knew it was cursed."
"Why didn't you say something then?"
"Because you called me a control freak the last time I micromanaged the formatting."
"I take it back. I need your control freak energy. Please fix this."
I snorted and opened PowerPoint.
Friday, final run-through.
We took over the empty classroom. Jhonathan dropped in with coffee and sat in the back like a judgmental seagull.
"Go on then," he said, sipping. "Dazzle me."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "That sounds vaguely threatening."
"It's support disguised as sarcasm. Proceed."
We went through the entire presentation, only stopping once for a tech hiccup and once when I forgot the word "resilience" and said "emotional bounce-back," which made Ethan nearly choke.
"I hate you," I muttered.
"You love me," he said automatically.
And I didn't say anything.
Because I didn't know how to lie to that.
That night, after we packed up, Ethan offered to walk me back to the dorm.
"You look like you're about to combust," he said.
"I feel like I already did. This is just ghost energy now."
He laughed quietly. "You're going to be great tomorrow."
"You don't know that."
"I know you," he said, and for the second time this week, it hit too hard.
When I got back to the dorm, I found Amelia lying across her bed upside down, phone on her chest, hair everywhere.
"Jonathan says I should wear red tomorrow. He thinks it'll distract you from the nerves."
"He wants to distract me with your outfit?"
She shrugged. "His words: 'If Alexis starts spiraling, just toss your hair dramatically and wink. It'll reset her emotional circuitry.'"
I blinked. "Your soon-to-be-boyfriend is weird."
"And perfect, also, HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND."
"But he will be." I said raising my brows dramatically.
She threw a pillow at me.
At 2:43 a.m., I couldn't sleep.
My mind wouldn't stop circling: What if I stumble? What if my mom corners me afterward with a PowerPoint presentation of my failures? What if Aditya proposes on stage?
Okay, that last one was unlikely. Probably.
I wandered into the common room for water and saw a note on the workshop bulletin board. It wasn't there earlier.
Folded. No signature.
I unfolded it.
'What kind of person draws pain and calls it art?'
My hands shook.
Taped below it was a printout of the first sketch I'd ever submitted anonymously.
The girl curled in on herself. Headphones. Shadows. The caption:
'She sleeps to forget she's still here.'
He knew.
Noah knew.
I folded the note and shoved it in my backpack.
Not tonight.
My inbox buzzed as I reached for my charger. A message from Aditya.
Aditya: Your mom told me you organized this whole thing. That's huge, Alexis. Should I bring flowers or just stand around and look impressed?
I didn't reply.
I closed my laptop and curled up in bed.
Tomorrow, I'll face everyone.
Even if I knew the storm was already on its way.
But tonight, I let myself be still.