STONED!!

The quad was alive, buzzing like a playlist someone had hit “shuffle” on and forgotten about. Laughter ricocheted off the brick walls. Backpacks swung like pendulums. Students lounged in groups, scrolling through their phones, sipping coffee, sharing earbuds, or teasing each other about last night’s assignments. I walked through it all with earbuds tucked in, music pulsing in my chest, and a grin on my face that had become my signature. Everyone knew me—or at least thought they did—and I made sure they got the best version of me.

“Zaria!” someone waved from a table near the fountain. I waved back effortlessly, a small nod to remind them I remembered their name. Social life was a game, and I’d mastered the rules. Smile here, laugh there, flirt a little—but never let anyone really in. Everyone loved the surface, no one cared about what they couldn’t reach. That was fine. I liked it that way.

I dropped my bag on the grass, stretching my hoodie sleeves over my hands. Oversized hoodies were perfect for mornings like this—casual, protective, easy. Sneakers scuffed lightly against the concrete as I shifted to watch the flow of students around me. Everyone was moving, talking, laughing, yet I felt like I was floating above it all, present and invisible at the same time.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. Messages from half the campus—group chats, memes, lunch plans, funny polls, the “you in class or nah?” type of texts. I typed back fast: On my way, don’t leave without me. Quick, friendly, confident. That was me. I thrived in these small connections, in the constant energy of everyone needing me, talking to me, noticing me.

And yet, sometimes, in the quiet corners of my mind, I wondered if any of it was real. Did anyone actually see me? Did anyone care beyond the smiles and waves? No. They didn’t. Not fully. Not deeply. The only person who had even a glimpse inside was… him.

The “mess-up boy.” Someone unpredictable, reckless, but honest in a way that no one else on campus could be. I didn’t understand why I trusted him, why his presence calmed something in me I didn’t even know was fraying. But I did. And that scared me.

I let my gaze wander across the quad. Students clustered in circles, throwing Frisbees, sharing notebooks, teasing loudly about homework, boyfriends, girls who didn’t text back. I laughed along with the voices in my head, imagining their private little dramas. I loved this life—the motion, the energy, the feeling of being everywhere and known by everyone. It was addictive.

And then, the other thoughts crept in. Dad’s voice, always sharp, always critical, replayed itself in snippets: “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” or “You’re making everything harder than it needs to be.” Mom tried to shield me, tried to remind me I was enough, that I was loved—but life kept pulling her away. And I had learned to navigate freedom, attention, and judgment all by myself.

I tugged at my messy bun, adjusting it so a few strands fell loose and framed my face. My hoodie slipped slightly off one shoulder, my sneakers pressed into the warm concrete. I breathed it in—the smell of coffee, the faint grassiness of the quad, the laughter, the chatter. This was my element. My stage. My world.

A soft ping on my phone pulled me back to reality. A text from someone I hadn’t expected to hear from today. My stomach flipped as I read it: “Meet me at the steps in five.”

My heart quickened. Should I go? Should I ignore it? A part of me wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. Another part—the part that had always been fearless, social, curious—wanted to go. I slid my sneakers on fully and walked toward the steps, weaving through clusters of students.

And as I moved, I let myself enjoy the sunlight, the sounds, the chaos. For now, I was unstoppable. I was free. And nothing—nothing—could touch me in this golden morning light.

Not yet.