The Anatomy of Almost (Jamilton)

Chapter 4: The Notebook Incident

Some people fear heights. Others fear spiders, clowns, or the dark.

I feared silence.

Not the peaceful kind, not the quiet of a late night when the world exhales and everything feels still. No, I feared the heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that wraps itself around your throat and squeezes until even your thoughts are gasping for air. The silence that follows you like a shadow, loud in its emptiness, echoing every insecurity you thought you'd buried.

The kind of silence that screams.

It was that exact brand of silence suffocating me as I sat in the student lounge, staring at my open notebook like it had grown teeth and bitten me. My fingers hovered over the pages, tracing the words I'd written as if I could pull them back into my chest where they belonged.

Because, in a way, this was my heart laid bare.

More accurately, it was my mistake. The fatal kind that starts with trust and ends with everyone knowing the shape of your scars.

It started earlier that day, though the weight of it felt like it had been building for years.

The dining hall was alive in that obnoxious way only college cafeterias could be, a symphony of clattering trays, overlapping conversations, and the distant hum of a broken vending machine no one bothered to fix. The air smelled like grease and cheap coffee.

I had claimed my usual corner table, the one where the light hit just right and the noise faded into a dull roar. A simple resting place. I let my pen bleed across the pages of my notebook, words spilling out faster than I could second-guess them. Thoughts too dangerous to speak. Feelings too heavy to carry.

I didn't notice the eyes watching me from across the room. I didn't feel the storm brewing.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from my head.

Herc: "Forgot my ID. Stuck outside. Bring me a cookie or I'll stage a tragic death scene."

A soft, exasperated smile tugged at my lips. Classic Herc.

I closed the notebook, leaving it on the table like an idiot, and made my way to the dessert bar. Thirty seconds. That's all it was supposed to be.

But thirty seconds is all it takes for your world to catch fire.

When I turned back, my pulse stumbled.

Aaron and James.

Two of Thomas's ever-loyal shadows, the kind of guys who smelled blood in the water and couldn't resist taking a bite. Aaron had my notebook open, his eyes scanning the pages with a grin that made my skin crawl. James stood beside him, already pulling out his phone like this was premium content.

"Look what we have here," Aaron announced, his voice slicing through the chatter like a blade.

I moved quickly, but James blocked my path, his smirk widening.

"Easy, Hamilton. We're just appreciating your artistic side."

"Put it down," I said, my voice low but shaking with the kind of fear that tasted like metal.

Aaron ignored me, his grin stretching as he climbed onto a chair.

"Gather round, everyone! Today's entertainment comes courtesy of our very own tortured poet."

I felt the shift in the room—heads turning, conversations dying, the electric buzz of impending cruelty.

"Don't," I warned, but the crack in my voice betrayed me.

Aaron's eyes gleamed with victory. And then he began. "He smells like nostalgia and mistakes I'd make again..."

The laughter was immediate, sharp and merciless. It wrapped around me, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I shoved at James, but more bodies closed in, eager to witness the spectacle.

"His name is a wound I keep tracing with my tongue..."

Each word was a dagger, slicing through whatever armor I thought I had left. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, loud and panicked. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

"Who's he talking about?"

"It's gotta be Jefferson."

"No wonder he's always so moody."

And in the midst of the whispering chaos there stood Thomas just inside the entrance, motionless. His tray hung limp in his hands, forgotten. His eyes weren't on Aaron. They were on me. The noise around us dulled, like the universe was holding its breath.

He didn't laugh. He didn't roll his eyes or smirk like I half-expected him to. He just stared, and that look gutted me more than any of Aaron's words.

Because it wasn't indifference. It was recognition.

Aaron's voice kept cutting through the fog, but I wasn't listening anymore. My body moved on instinct, adrenaline pushing me forward as I ripped the notebook from his hands.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" My voice came out louder than I intended, cracking under the weight of too many emotions.

Aaron shrugged, smug and unbothered. "If you didn't want an audience, maybe don't write love poems about guys way out of your league."

The laughter that followed was deafening.

I felt heat rise to my face, my vision blurring with tears I refused to shed here. Not in front of them. So I turned and walked out, every step heavier than the last. My hands clutched the notebook like it was the only thing holding me together.

I didn't look back.

I didn't have to.

I could still feel Thomas's gaze pinned to my back like a weight I'd carry long after the door closed behind me.

Hours later, the echo of that moment still rang in my ears as I sat slouched in the lounge, the notebook resting on my lap like a loaded gun.

Herc sat across from me, watching with that careful mix of concern and helplessness.

"Talk to me," he said softly, nudging my foot like it could jolt me back to life.

"I'm calculating how fast I can fake my death and disappear," I muttered, my voice hollow.

I flipped through the pages, each word now feeling like a betrayal. Like I'd handed them a map to every place I was broken.

"It's not that bad," Herc offered, but we both knew it was a lie.

"They won't forget," I whispered, my throat tight. "And neither will he."

Before Herc could respond, Lafayette burst into the room, radiating chaos and determination.

"Crisis management is complete! By tomorrow, no one will care about your emotional striptease," he declared, flopping onto the couch beside me.

"What did you do?" I asked more interested in his excitement rather than the potential of what he actually did.

"Spread a rumor that Professor Alden and the Dean are running an underground sex club."

Herc nodded along with a low whistle, "Bold."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that rumors faded and people moved on. But as my phone buzzed again with another notification, I knew better. Laf placed a hand over mine, grounding me with a rare moment of quiet sincerity. "They don't get to define you by a few stolen words."

I swallowed hard, nodding even though I didn't believe it.

Because no matter how many jokes Laf made or how many times Herc reminded me that people had short attention spans, the truth was carved into my bones.

It wasn't the strangers laughing that haunted me. It was the way Thomas looked at me. Like he still saw the boy who used to read him those words in private. Like he knew they were still his.

And that was a truth I couldn't outrun, no matter how fast I tried.