Thank God class was let out early, otherwise I would've probably heaved onto the floor instead of the bathroom sink. I need to be alone—hearing another person right now might actually make this worse than what I'm currently feeling. I think about reaching out to my mother, but the thought of dialing her number and sobbing into the phone is too painful. This was her idea to enroll in this program after all. Fucking betrayal.

A stress-induced gag rips from my throat. It's only the first week and my public speaking professor is already discussing a group project. I hate this dumb ass school, I hate dumb ass public speaking, and I hate how I don't have any fucking privacy in this god damn building.

I back myself into the corner of the small bathroom, sweat already falling down my back. Oh right—I'm wearing two layers of clothes because of the "college mandated dress code." I rip off the stupid tie that I couldn't even tie myself; it feels like it's choking me. Same with the fucking button down. I strip each article off one by one, and by the time I'm just in my underwear, my breath is labored. I wish I could rip off my skin too—the sensation of even air against my body is too much. I dry heave again.

No, I can't do this. I can't talk in front of people. I can't be alone one on one with a stranger. The realization hits me like a physical blow as I sink to the floor, sobbing into my hands before I even realize what's happening. It's like a dam burst, nineteen years of repressed emotion tumbling out of my brain in a tidal wave.

Another heave rips from my throat as I press my forehead into the cool tile, hoping the floor will swallow me whole. I don't know whether to call out for help because I genuinely think I might be dying, or to crawl deeper into myself because the thought of someone seeing me like this is utterly shameful. I cover my face with my arms—lights are too bright, the air vent sounds like needles in my eardrums. I wish I would just disappear.

The worst part is not being able to feel my lips or my limbs—wanting to run but feeling helplessly bolted to the ground. The buzzing in my head reaches a crescendo, vibrating off my skull and ripping through my senses.

Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. I don't want to die. Not here.

Then suddenly, clarity. I don't know how long I've been lying on the bathroom floor, but I don't care if it's disgustingly dirty. I push myself up on shaky limbs, my hair now damp with sweat, blonde strands sticking to my forehead.

What a pitiful sight. You can't be normal, can you Riley? Can't have a human reaction to ANYTHING.

I bend over the counter and let a shudder run through me. I'm freezing now, but the thought of putting that uniform back on makes my skin crawl. Just a few more minutes of peace before reality returns to turbulence instead of this fragile calm.

Once the worst of it passes after what feels like forever, I slowly pull on a cotton tee, letting it hang over my fatigued frame like a sheet on canvas.

Just fifteen more weeks of this...