The closest I get to professional help is a mandatory appointment with the welfare office.

Despite the name, it's essentially a glorified version of high-school guidance counseling—and had the word mandatory not been spelled out so clearly in the email invitation, I definitely wouldn't have bothered showing up this afternoon. It's standard procedure for all students who've taken a semester out, apparently. To check in, make sure I'm settling back into classes, and assess whether I need further support.

After what happened last night, the answer to that is a resounding yes.

But I've already made up my mind: they won't be able to tell from my brave face.

The appointment doesn't get off to a great start. I'm seated in the waiting room a full ten minutes before my allotted time, but there's no movement inside the office for twenty-five. Glancing down at my phone, I'm deliberating how long I have to wait before it's acceptable to skip out and declare it a no-show when the door bursts open and a frazzled-looking woman stumbles in. Her curly hair is sticking up in all directions, like she's stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and her face is flushed with color. She also smells faintly of cigarette smoke.

When our eyes meet, hers widen.

"Oh!" she squeaks. "Hello! Sorry I'm late. I was—well, I was elsewhere. Are you Madison?"

"Morgan," I correct her. "Morgan Cain?"

Flushed panic crosses her face again; I have no idea where this woman has been, but the longer this encounter goes on, the less I want to know. She tries to keep her cool, though, and nods like she's got the faintest idea who I am. "Morgan. Of course. Like I said, sorry I'm late, but well—yes. Let's not waste any more time. Please, come in."

She opens the office door and steps aside to let me in.

If I expect her organizational skills to improve once she's settled behind her computer, I'm about to be disappointed. She doesn't even look at me, instead tapping loudly on her keyboard—and her eyes dart from the screen to me and back again as she presumably scrambles to locate my file.

"So, Morgan," she says, distracted. "I'm Dr. Reyna. What can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure," I reply. "I took some time off earlier in the year, and the email said this was standard procedure."

"That's right." She's trying to look at me, but I can tell I don't even have half of her attention; the mouse clicks rapidly as she continues trying to find the file. Without her notes, she seems to be at a complete loss—although maybe that'll make this whole thing easier to bear. "So, do you feel like you accomplished what you needed to in your time off?"

What, getting over my dead boyfriend? Yeah, sure.

"Uh... yeah, I guess so."

"Good." More clicking. "And do you feel like this is the right time for you to come back?"

"Yeah," I say, with the confidence I wish I had. "I think so."

Dr. Reyna's face breaks into a smile, and it feels nice to have it acknowledged that I've said the right thing, even if I'm not strictly convinced I'm telling the truth. In the same moment, she makes one final click of her mouse, and what she's been searching for appears on the screen in all its messy, uncomfortable glory.

I can pinpoint the exact moment her expression—and the atmosphere—changes. It's like the earth has shifted beneath us.

"Oh," she says quietly.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

She shakes her head, but the words take a little longer to come. Not to mention she seems to be avoiding dragging her eyes back to me. "No, no." A pause, then she finally makes eye contact. "I just... wanted to say I'm sorry. For what happened to your boyfriend. It was tragic, and... well. It must have been very hard for you to deal with."

No kidding, I want to say. But I don't.

Instead I nod, because that seems like it'll lead to the quickest route out of here.

"And to come back here, after such a short space of time..." There's so much pity in her eyes that she's making me feel like an injured puppy. "Well. I'm glad we're having this meeting. If there's anything you want to talk about—anything at all—now's the time to do it."

I tap my hand against the side of my leg restlessly. "Uh, I think I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" she asks. "There's nothing on your mind?"

A lot of things, believe it or not. But absolutely none that I want to discuss with a total stranger and have end up on my official records for the next four years.

"I'm doing a lot better now," I tell her. "Like you said, it's been rough, but I really think now's the time for me to come back to my studies."

"And that's great to hear." She smiles again, but there's a weird underlay to the expression: a mixture of relief that I'm not about to break down in her office, and obvious skepticism about whether I'm being honest. I can only hope she decides it's not worth the risk to delve deeper. "You're coping in your classes okay so far?"

"Yeah."

"And you've settled into where you're living? You're in a dorm again, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "It's all fine."

"And do you feel like you're getting all the support you need from the university? Or is there anything else we could be doing to help you with your transition?"

Leaving me alone would be a good place to start. However much she tries to frame this like a friendly conversation, she's obviously working her way through a checklist—and every answer is being noted down in my file. So I don't say too much. I continue sitting there with my hands tucked in my lap, squeezing the skin between my thumb and forefinger until it hurts, and try to say as little as possible. Because every snippet of information is dangerous. It's another hook for Dr. Reyna to latch onto. And the longer we talk, the harder it'll be to keep up the pretense that I'm okay.

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so."

"Okay," she says, opening one of the drawers in her desk. "Well, if that changes, you can find all the contact details for our support services in this pamphlet. Here, keep this safe."

I take it from her. "Thanks."

And that's it. After a ten-minute appointment, we wrap things up and I'm ushered out of the room. It's hard to tell which one of us is more relieved. She does mention something about a follow-up; there'll be another one of these sessions to endure in a month's time, but that feels like a lifetime away. For now, I'm alone again.

The safest way to be.

I'm feeling cautiously optimistic as I walk out of the office, stuffing the pamphlet into my bag as I go. I managed to convince her. I'm passing as a functioning human being. All I have to do is keep it that way.

But I don't make it out of the reception area before something stops me in my tracks.

My breath catches in my throat, and my mood darkens like a sudden storm.

Across the room, past the couple of other students in the waiting room with their heads down and attention absorbed in their phones, there's a magazine stand. I barely noticed it before, since I don't have any interest in reading months-old editions of the campus newspaper or overly clinical pamphlets about looking after your mental health. But it's been freshly stocked in the last thirty minutes, with so many copies of one magazine they're facing out in every available space.

The print edition of GXRL.

Twelve identical images of Josh's face—the same photo from his Facebook profile—are looking back at me. All with the headline I'll never forget.

THE UNPOLISHED TRUTH ABOUT CAMPUS' GOLDEN BOY.

My heart drops and jumps into my throat all at once; I feel like I'm going to keel over and throw up at the same time. Seeing the online article plastered over social media was bad enough, but the words and photo being there in tangible form is a whole other ball game.

I can't handle it.

Before I can think about what I'm doing, I lurch toward the magazine stand. I start frantically gathering all the copies I can, even though there are more behind the first and too many for me to carry. I don't flinch when some of them slide off the top of my pile and onto the floor. By now, the other couple of students have looked up from their phones and are staring at me, but they barely register. I can only focus on carrying the magazines over to the other side of the room and dropping them into the trash.

They don't say anything, and I don't blame them; I know I look crazed and unstable. They probably recognize me as Josh's girlfriend, which only makes it worse. I wouldn't confront me, either.

When my arms are free, it finally hits me what I've done—and the scorching flush creeps up on me in record timing. The eye contact is physically painful, and I can't produce enough words to string together a logical reason for throwing thirty brand-new magazines in the trash. So there's only one option left.

I make a break for it.

I tear out of the office and into the lobby of the main building, where the crowd of people at least makes it easier to blend in. Their collective noise swells around me, but I can't work out whether the commotion is comforting—or if it just amplifies the chaos inside my head. I dodge past as quickly as possible. My breathing is shallow, my forehead slick with sweat, and I might be able to calm down if only I could seize a few moments alone. The exit is in sight, and I'm almost there...

But then a hand catches my arm with too much purpose to be accidental.

I don't know who I'm expecting, but it's not Elliot.

"Morgan?"

This time, his resemblance to Josh doesn't catch me so off guard. Although still overcome with rising panic, I'm at least able to stop and say one word. "Elliot."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm, uh..." I stop, take a breath, sift through the tangle of words in my head. "Yeah. I just, uh, saw something that freaked me out a little. But I'm okay."

Somehow, he understands without me needing to explain. "Let me guess. The print version of the magazine?"

I'm taken aback. "Yeah, actually."

"I saw it earlier," he says, nodding sympathetically. "I wasn't expecting it to make the front page, either, but I guess it's their big exclusive story of the month."

I think of Hanna over the summer, in the time we haven't been speaking, and imagine how much of a thrill she must've gotten when this story came to life. She was always looking to make a splash, to outdo the main campus newspaper—The Davidson Daily—that she hated so much. This would be the biggest story of the year, let alone the month, and it must've been a rush to put her name to it. And I know I'm not supposed to take it personally, but it's really hard not to.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Hey," Elliot says. "Do you have plans for dinner tonight? I know we talked about grabbing food together in the cafeteria some time, so we could do that, if you want. It might take your mind off things."

I'm about to say no, because my overpowering instinct right now is to take some time alone. I'm not even sure I'll eat dinner; once I hole myself up in my room, I probably won't even feel hungry enough to venture out again.

But I also know that isn't healthy. Elliot's looking at me like he knows what I'm thinking, and suddenly, coming up with the flimsy excuse seems worse than gritting my teeth and doing it. If I'm going to keep lying to my parents and everyone else, telling them I'm fine, the least I can do is try to make it true.

One long breath escapes me.

"Yeah, okay," I tell him. "Why not?"

--------------------

Another day in lockdown, another chapter! I've actually been working on this story a lot more recently; I think I've found a daily routine that works. Even if I only crank out a couple of hundred words a day, it's keeping the story moving forward and I'm so happy about that.

Thank you so much for all your comments on the previous chapter. It does so much for my motivation, and I reply to everyone! So if you're a silent reader, please don't be.

Today's question: are you excited to see more of Elliot in the coming chapters? Or are you screaming at Morgan not to trust him and to stay away? Let me know...

Stay safe, and until next time!

- Leigh