The mug slipped out of my hands before my catching reflexes could kick in.

Without even allowing my mind to overthink her words, my fingers moved to the paper towels on the counter. I bent down to clean up the mess and picked up the beautiful purple pieces left of my all-time favorite mug.

Did she actually say 'kill'?

Why did I let a stranger into my house? Where did my brain go in these "lapse" moments when I decided not to use it?

I stood back up with the kind of speed one would use to approach the wires of a ticking bomb.

Placing the pieces in the sink, I tried to shrug off the laughter that bubbled out her chapped lips as she took in the shocked expression on my face.

"Your face," she said, either not aware of the fright she had caused or unbothered by it. "Some things really do stick," she added, a wistful smile on the corner of her lips. "Not literally, obviously. I was just always busy with work. I never really took care of her. I guess it's my fault she married that idiot."

"So she's not dead?" I asked, quickly spitting out each word as if they would burn my tongue if they lingered.

"Oh no, no. She was going out with this guy who smelled like trouble. I figured she was just trying to get my attention so, of course, I ignored it and didn't say anything. Now they've been married ten years; they have two kids, and they're barely making rent. I can't really boast about my parenting skills."

I stared at her and I hoped she couldn't see that my eyes were nothing close to compassionate. I didn't know her. I didn't want to chat about her daughter's life, especially not after she scared the soul out of my body.

"No offense, Marge, but I don't understand why you're telling me this."

"It's just—" She looked at me and the warmth in her eyes chilled me more than the cackling laughter had. "You talk in your sleep."

"What?" I said, biting down on my lip so I wouldn't laugh. That was so irrelevant.

"Like I said—thin walls." I followed the honest curve of her smile with a confused look. I didn't know why this woman who did not know me genuinely cared or whatever was the emotion on her face. "You scream too. I just thought you might need a friend."

My nightmares were as much a part of my personality as my dry humor, at this point. I could remember waking up then running to my parents' room when I was about 10 years old. It was a much more consistent part of my life than my friendships.

But no one had ever told me I talked in my sleep. It must have been a new trick I developed from the sleepless nights and the stress.

My fingers punched the coffeemaker button on and off, creating a ticking sound that both relaxed and annoyed me.

"I'm fine." My voice didn't sound genuine, but Marge didn't point it out. She simply smiled before nodding with a strange knowing look on her face that seemed to scream without a word, "Ah, the denial stage."

I meant it, at least I thought I did. Twenty was the wrong age to start changing habits I built over ten years ago.

And if it was denial, that was still good enough. I didn't care as long as it didn't affect my life.

She was about to turn around to walk away when I heard myself speak again, "What do I say in my sleep?"

I stared down at my shoes. The brown spot on the sole of my sneaker looked more interesting than ever.

"Oh, dear. You know, I can't make out the words very well. My hearing's declining." She chuckled but her eyes didn't show any hint of amusement.

Whatever she had heard, she clearly didn't believe it should be repeated.

I would have insisted, but I realized that I didn't really want to know.

"I really must get going," she said. "Thanks for the, um—" She stared at the pieces of the mug in the sink and the drops of coffee left on the floor— "for the coffee."

Maybe it was some kind of defense mechanism, but as soon as the door closed behind her, my brain tuned out the interaction and I didn't spare it a thought for the rest of the evening.

➷➷➷

"You know, you should really just take a break," was the first thing Ace said when I told him about my internship interview, the next day when he called me. "You've been studying, working, tutoring, non-stop since you started college."

I knew the unspoken purpose of his call—he wanted to check up on me after the breakup. But I only remembered it had even happened when I picked up on the concerned tone of his voice. I had chased it out of my mind since the last time it was brought up.

I didn't know whether to think of it as a superpower or a weakness that I couldn't feel anything strongly enough for it to matter.

Little things stayed. I had a vague mental concept of what Thomas's hair felt like when my fingers combed through the black strands or the intensity in his brown eyes when he looked at me as if he actually got me. Only now could I reflect on the fact that he couldn't possibly. I still struggled to understand myself.

The general memories were mostly hazy—lost and scattered within the truth that I could not be bothered with heartbreak at the moment.

The hurt would have to wait until I was ready.

"I don't have time for a break. Besides, it's just a possibility. I might not get it. In fact, I probably won't. Mom just bullied Mr. Crawford into telling me about it. He probably didn't even think I stood a chance."

What I did not mention was that any time my planner wasn't full of things to do, places to be, and people to entertain, I did not know what to do with myself. That was all there was to my life.

It was not necessarily loneliness. Just an emptiness I didn't want to allow myself to think about.

These things were straightforward. I worked—I got paid. I studied—I got good grades. I couldn't afford the luxury to think about the aspects of my life that weren't so direct.

At least that was before Mr. Crawford decided he could ruin the order of the universe by adding heart to it. So what if it looked magical whenever Emma danced and forced out emotions that I could never manage?

What was so wrong about wanting a rubric for writing?

For life?

"It didn't even cross my mind that you wouldn't get it," Ace said. A muffled TV on his side attracted my attention for a moment. "I know you will. I can't remember a time since I've known that you've failed at something."

I doubted that he would still believe that if he saw the poor grades I was earning in Fiction writing. But I picked up on the hint of envy in his intonation, probably because I expected it to be there. Not that he had ever failed. He had simply never tried anything long enough to figure out whether he could fail. I couldn't blame him for not wanting to find out.

"Please tell me you won't do that thing where you go on emotional leave and pretend to forget everything." He laughed. "I know how much you love to ignore the fact that you actually do have feelings."

"It's not a thing. It's just not important enough right now. I have a hundred other things to focus my attention on. Ask Mr. Crawford. He'll tell you how much work I need to do to catch up with my classmates in skill."

"You don't have to catch up. You just need to do your own thing. Find your own style."

To his credit, he did that daily. He was clueless about his future and he owned it.

"You're the only person that has ever worked for. Call me again when you have a larger sample size."

"Hey, listen," he said after a few seconds of silence that he couldn't stand. "Emma and I are going on a mission tonight to try and find the best ice cream spot in Raleigh. Do you want to come along?"

If Ace and Crazy Marge had anything in common, as unlikely a pair as they were, it was a newly-found common concern for my sanity from their assumption that I was lonely.

"I am so not third-wheeling on your date. Besides, Emma doesn't even eat ice cream."

"Fine, so it was my idea, okay? I had the best rocky road ice cream a few years ago, and I can't find the spot. Emma's my partner in crime so she agreed to tag along."

"Thanks for the invite. But, I— I, uh, have something."

A pause followed my statement. My hand pressed against my mouth to conceal any potentially suspicious breath.

"All right. If your plans fall through," he said, not calling me out on the obvious lie, "just let me know and I'll pick you up."

I felt bad for rejecting his invite, but I didn't want to ruin their fun. Even if I went, my mind wouldn't be entirely with them. Half of it would still be at home, working on my new story, pining for better feedback.

"Oh, and your mom asked me to tell you to call her back," he said, fast, as if he thought I would hang up on him before he could finish. I would.

My eyes snapped shut under the strength of the relentless pounding in my head.

I knew that I rarely picked up her calls, but it bothered me that Mom resorted to talking to everyone I knew to get to me. I felt like she could reach me if she wanted to. Just like the sun still did, even though I took the time to close my blinds every morning. It still slipped through the cracks, finding any possible spot.

"Stop playing the middle man."

"You two are the ones putting me in the middle. But, seriously, catch up. She's worried." He hung up.

I didn't think my mom was capable of worrying, but she could sure ace the face.

Beyond that, something felt hollow about how she expressed her feelings—like it did not quite reach her heart, and like it was just for show.

Maybe I had inherited that. I didn't believe my expressions either. But maybe that was just a sign that I had relatively good control over my emotions. I liked to think that no tear would ever slip past my eyes without my explicit command.

Detached and unbothered. That would be my new motto.

It didn't bother me that the calendar still had a red blotchy circle around the 15th when Thomas and I were supposed to go on a road trip. It didn't bother me that I was bailing on Ace again as I always did.

Detached. Unbothered.

But, since I didn't actually have plans, I settled on the couch again and started doing research for school.

For once, I was hyper-conscious that there were other people living on the other side of my walls, living their own lives that did not include me.

On my right, I could hear a soft cello playing with hesitation, messing up, then starting over again, more careful this time, now aware that failure was waiting at every beat.

I was always intrigued by the idea that two people could be so close, kept apart by a frail, destructible wall without ever getting to meet. But then again, actual encounters would ruin the whole concept and the mental picture I had already formed of who they were and what they did on their weekends.

I wondered if the cellist could hear my reticent typing and could guess that college wasn't what I expected it to be.

But it wasn't like I was struggling. I had it all under control. I always did and this summer wasn't going to reduce to dust everything I had worked nonstop for.

Not if I could help it.