Don't Write Me Off

1. erika - if you change your mind

I haven't been sleeping well these past few weeks. The reasons vary, I think. First, the overbearing load of senior year: which came as a surprise since I thought it would be easier, given that I only had to worry about my thesis. However, due to some minor setbacks from a few bad choices I've made last year, I have to retake one more writing subject, PI 100 or The Life and Works of Jose Rizal, and Math 11--College Algebra, otherwise known as my sworn enemy since freshman year. Recently, I've been trying to cope with the too-close writing deadlines and the fact that I can never grasp whatever they teach in that Math class. Second, my therapist seems to think that cognitive behavioral therapy is doing wonders for my anxiety, but I feel like once I get out of my prescribed routine and sessions I will be back to being a mess, especially if I spiral down to Gab-related thoughts.

So, if I'm not spending my nights practically drowning in coffee and accidentally memorizing the chronological order of jazz music tracks being played at Starbucks (indie if I'm at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf), I'm trying to tire myself out aiming for dreamless sleep. I tell no one this, of course, because I don't want anyone to worry about me more than I already do myself. I'm beginning to think that no one notices the half-awake haze I've been in, until I am woken up yet again by Paula in our PI 100 class, just as people were beginning to leave.

"Alright, this is getting out of hand." I look up at Paula with a slight jump from my seat, frantically looking around to realize we were close to being alone.

I yawn. "I'm sorry, must be all the reading."

She shakes her head slightly, getting up from her seat to gather her things. I let out a deep breath and do the same, trailing behind her as she exits. I quicken my pace to match hers, only smiling at everyone she's greeting back in the hallway like Miss Congeniality in a pageant. We enter the ladies room and she excuses herself for a while as I stare at my reflection in the mirror: bare-faced, my crumpled-looking years old Coldplay shirt under a maroon hoodie, and denim shorts I threw on last minute when I discovered that all my jeans were in the wash. I bent down a bit to wash my face, hoping that the splash of cold water will help with the overall grogginess. I dry myself off. Paula comes out of the cubicle, washing her hands before crossing her arms in front of her with her eyebrows furrowed, which scares me just a tad bit.

"What?"

"How are you, really, Erika?" she fusses, "And don't give me that 'I'm fine' bullshit. Something is up and I don't like it. Has Gab been in contact again?"

I flinch at the name but I quickly recover. I decide to tell her the easy explanation, "I...I've been having trouble lately. Writing deadlines...and, uh, you know, Math 11."

"What do you plan on doing about it?"

I shrug, "I don't know. Go to consultation hours, I guess? I can't drop the class. I've run out of time trying to avoid it for four years. I want to be done by this semester."

She reapplies her lipstick for a few seconds before coming back to me, seeming hesitant but with that look in her eye, "I have a crazy idea that might help, but I'm not sure you'll like it."

I raise an eyebrow, "Paula I am not going to--"

"No, no," she stops me with a fit of laughter, "not that. I'm not going to ask you to seduce your professor. That was a joke...okay, not really, but it's not that! It's just...found something that really caught my attention. Come!"

I hesitate about following her when she goes back to the cubicle she was in, thinking I misheard her or something, but when she still motions for me to come with her, I weirdly oblige. She closes the door as soon as I get in. I look behind me, the door revealing a series of vandal in varying colors and sizes, a few stickers from orgs as well. The most prominent handwritten one being the phone number scrawled across hugely with what seems to be a Sharpie, against the fading words drawn years before us. The bold ink made it hard to miss, and it definitely seemed like a recent addition to the previous ones. Right above the 11-digit number is an arrow and the words, "Jasper De Jesus, you asshole. I hope they come after you!"