Sunday arrived quietly, the kind of morning that pretended to be kind while hiding questions in its silence. I lay awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling as sunlight slipped through the curtains and painted slow lines across the wall.
For once, I wasn't anxious about the day ahead.
That realization unsettled me more than fear ever had.
My phone vibrated beside me.
Lydia: Campus café at ten. I need coffee and chaos.
Tasha: If you cancel, we're dragging you out ourselves.
Samuel: If you're free later, I'd like your thoughts on something.
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. I turned onto my side, holding the phone loosely, as though gripping it too tightly might make this feeling vanish.
Belonging was new to me. And new things had a way of breaking.
At the café, everything felt easy. Too easy. Lydia animatedly complained about her week, Tasha exaggerated every reaction, and Samuel listened with quiet amusement, occasionally glancing at me like he was making sure I hadn't slipped away.
"You've changed," Lydia said suddenly, studying me over her mug.
My stomach tightened. "Changed how?"
"In a good way," she rushed on. "You smile now. Like you're not always bracing yourself."
I laughed it off, but her words followed me like a shadow.
Bracing myself had kept me alive for a long time. Letting my guard down meant risking disappointment—and disappointment had teeth.
Later, Samuel and I walked across campus, leaves crunching beneath our feet, the afternoon sun soft but insistent.
"Do you ever feel like things get good right before they fall apart?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
He paused. "Why would you think that?"
"Experience," I said with a shrug.
He looked at me for a long moment. "Not everything good is temporary, Anna. Sometimes patterns can change."
I wanted to tell him how afraid I was—of needing this, of needing them. Of how losing it all would hurt more now that it mattered.
But the words stayed lodged in my chest.
That night, I opened my journal, the familiar weight of the pen grounding me.
I'm learning that connection is a gift, I wrote. But gifts can be taken away. If I let myself hold this too tightly, will it hurt more when it's gone?
I closed the book slowly, unaware that the very bonds I feared losing were already being tested—quietly, invisibly—pulling at the threads I was only just beginning to trust.