Campus — Friday 9:44 am

I stare at the bulletin board in front of the health center. I don't know how I ended up here. I'm supposed to be at home, watching my favorite show, ordering takeout. That's the plan. Or it was.

Now I'm staring at a skinny strip of paper tucked behind brochures and flyers.

It's a help hotline. Anyone can call in. It's free.

And anonymous.

I want to take it, but I'm scared. Taking it means admitting to a virtual stranger that something happened to me. Am I truly ready for that? Can I handle everything it entails?

I wish my friend had asked yesterday. I was ready then. I don't know if I'm ready now.

My hands are sweaty. The ink smears as I grab hold. I'm seconds from taking it, but I hesitate. My hand drops.

I'm not ready for it to be in my possession. What if someone finds it in my bag? How can I explain why it's there?

I stare at the ten-digit number.

I'll be back. 

It's a promise.