Page 47

Campus looks different now.

Not literally—same quad, same brick buildings, same patchy grass and sticky doors that catch in the winter. But I’m walking through it differently. Lighter. Straighter. Like my spine forgot how much it was holding until it finally let go.

I’ve stopped pretending I want something I don’t, that I don’t want what I do, and the world didn’t collapse.

Not yet, anyway.

My boots thud against the tile as I climb the stairs to the kinesiology building.

My stomach twists a little. I’m not here for class—I’m here for a meeting with my advisor.

My “let’s talk about next steps” advisor.

The one I’ve been avoiding since September because I didn’t know what the hell to say.

But now I do.

Sort of.

I knock twice and push the door open.

“Sadie!” Dr. Gillian smiles and waves me in. “Have a seat. You look well. New glasses?”

I grin. “Same ones. Just… less stress behind them today, maybe.”

“Well, it suits you.”

Their office is small but warm—plants in the windows, a beanbag in the corner with a stack of outdated anatomy books, and a tiny pink lava lamp that hasn’t moved in two years.

The office smells like lavender and printer toner.

There’s a tiny Zen fountain burbling in the corner, a well-loved Pride flag on the bookshelf, and sticky notes with things like

hydrate or die-rate

and

Due dates are social constructs, but science is forever.

scribbled in Sharpie. It’s chaos and calm in equal measure. Kind of like them. I remember asking them to be my adviser precisely because of the clutter. It felt… familiar.

They smile as I sit.

“Hey, Sadie. Congrats on submitting your capstone. It read beautifully.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though my armpits are already sweating through my hoodie. “It nearly killed me.”

Dr. Gillian chuckles and leans back in their chair. “That’s how we know it’s good work.”

I half-laugh, half-wince. My leg bounces under the table.

“So,” they say gently, pulling up something on their tablet. “Graduation’s around the corner. Let’s talk about next steps.”

And there it is. The question I’ve been avoiding like moldy leftovers in the back of the fridge.

“I wanted to check in,” I say, sitting. “About that. I know I’ve been quiet, but I’m finishing out the program. I’m too close not to.”

“Good.” They nod. “I hoped you would. You’ve put in a lot of work. You deserve the ultimate prize.”

I snort. “That’s generous.” I try not to laugh at the thought of a degree as a prize.

“It’s earned.”

There’s a pause, and I surprise myself by filling it.

“I don’t know what I’m doing after.”

Dr. Gillian leans back slightly. “That’s okay.”

I blink. “It is?”

“Sadie, do you know how many of our students feel that way? Especially in this field? It’s a rigorous program with a thousand directions. Not everyone leaves knowing exactly what they want.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my lungs relieved.

“You’re one of the most hard-working students I’ve ever advised,” they go on. “And the way you’ve managed your workload—especially with the challenges you’ve worked through—has been remarkable.”

I frown slightly. “Challenges?”

Oof. Direct hit.

They tilt their head thoughtfully.

“It’s hard going through life masking, trying to fit into someone else’s version of you.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. I stare at the bookshelf instead of their face.

“Masking,” I repeat. “Like autism or something? I do seem to major in parental approval.”

They shake their head gently. “I’m not diagnosing you, Sadie. That’s not my lane. But I do think you’re neurodivergent.”

I blink. Hard.

“What makes you say that?”

They smile, warm and completely unfazed.

“The way you process information. Your sensory sensitivities. How you approach problems with this blend of hyper-focus and burnout. Your people-pleasing instincts are actually very common in neurodivergent ciswomen—especially those raised in environments that emphasized image and achievement. You’ve adapted beautifully, but that doesn’t mean the pressure hasn’t been enormous. ”

I stare at my hands. I don’t know what to do with this. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was just bad at things. Disorganized. Emotional. Lazy. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough, all at once.

“I thought I was just broken,” I whisper.

“No,” Gillian says firmly. “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant. Your brain just doesn’t run the same OS as the people who wrote the rulebook.”

Something in my throat catches. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this sooner?”

“Shit,” Dr. Gillian winces. “I stuck my foot in my mouth, didn’t I.

” They smile, not unkind. “We’ve never talked directly about your neurodivergence, but I didn’t realize no one had.

People tend to see what they’ve been taught to see.

I’ve noticed the way you build systems. The way you process under pressure.

You’ve found ways to succeed in an environment that doesn’t always make room for brains like ours. ”

I sit very, very still.

“I wasn’t sure anyone noticed.”

“That’s because you learned to mask well enough to blend.

And because the system rewards that kind of thing.

” They pause. “But I’ve been watching the way you care.

The way you notice the smallest shifts in people.

The way you advocate for others and shrink for yourself.

And I wanted you to know—if you don’t know what comes next, that’s okay.

You’re allowed to build something that fits you.

Exactly as you are.” A pause, “I’m proud of you, Sadie. ”

I nod, but my throat’s tight. It’s the first time someone in authority has ever said it out loud. Not hinted. Not praised my ‘quirks’ or ‘perseverance.’ Just… seen it. Named it.

“I think I’m scared,” I admit. “That if I stop doing what I’m ‘supposed’ to do, everyone will be disappointed. Or leave.”

“You deserve to be chosen for who you are,” they say. “Not who you pretend to be.”

Tears prickle behind my eyes, unexpected and sharp.

“Are you trying to make me cry in your office?”

“Only a little. It means I’m doing my job.”

We both laugh, and I press the heel of my palm against my cheek. I should feel undone by this conversation—but I don’t. I feel… seen. Like a puzzle piece that’s finally being placed in the right spot.

Dr. Gillian hands me a small brochure about career services, but they also slide over a card for a therapist who specializes in neurodivergent adults.

“You don’t have to figure everything out right now,” they say. “But you’re allowed to explore what works for you, not just what makes everyone else comfortable.”

I nod, slowly. “I think… I might actually want that.”

Their smile is soft. “Good. Then you’re exactly where you need to be. And whatever you do next,” Dr. Gillian adds, “you’ll be okay. Because you’re curious. You care. And you don’t give up.”

I feel myself nodding, slowly, like I’m absorbing sunlight through my skin. I’m not sure if it’s permission or revelation, but something settles in my chest.

I bite the inside of my cheek and smile.

I walk home with my earbuds in, but no music playing. The conversation with Dr. Gillian loops in my head like a song I didn’t know I needed to hear.

You don’t give up. You’ve found ways to succeed. I’m proud of you.

I want to believe it. I think maybe I do. Because Ragnar has said the same thing to me. A million times over. And that’s two against one. I can tell my new mindset is going to take practice. By the time I make it home, the sky is dimming and my nerves are back.

My parents’ house smells like something warm—rosemary chicken or maybe one of my dad’s attempts at baking bread.

Their routines never change. Their expectations rarely do either.

I pause on the front step. I don’t want a fight.

I don’t even want a dramatic monologue. I just want to tell the truth without having to earn their ear first.

The door creaks when I push it open.

“Sadie?” My mom’s voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Hey,” I call. “Mind if I join you for dinner?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Of course.”

I hang my coat, kick off my boots, and brace myself.

The table’s already set. Water glasses, folded napkins, salad in a white ceramic bowl. My dad is slicing bread, my mom arranging roasted vegetables on a platter.

They look up when I enter. I take my seat without waiting to be invited.

“Work okay today?” my dad asks as he passes me the breadbasket.

“I had a meeting with my advisor.”

My mom’s eyes flick to mine, curious. “Everything alright? Graduation?”

“Yeah. I’m graduating on time. Just… figuring out what happens after.”

Another pause.

“You’re not continuing?” my mom asks carefully.

“Not in this field. No.”

I don’t soften it. I don’t decorate it with disclaimers. I just let it land.

My dad blinks. “Do you know what you do want?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I know I want the chance to find out.”

Silence. Not heavy. Just… still.

And then my mom, voice quiet: “Is this about Ragnar?”

“Yes,” I say. “And no.”

They wait.

“He’s part of it. But the truth is I’ve been pretending for a long time, masking. Not just with him. With school. With you. With myself.”

My mom sets her fork down gently. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“I didn’t either,” I say. “Not for a long time.”

She leans forward slightly. “We never wanted you to feel you had to be anyone else. We only ever wanted you to succeed.”

“I know,” I say. “But sometimes it felt like you loved the version of me who smiled through everything more than the one who struggled. The one who didn’t know what she wanted.”

My dad shifts in his chair, face softening. “Are you happy? Now?”

I don’t answer right away.

But then I think of Ragnar’s laugh. Of Howl’s big head in my lap. Of the way it felt to sleep through the night in a house that wasn’t mine—but felt like it could be.

“I’m getting there,” I say. “I think I’m closer than I’ve ever been.”

My mom’s eyes shine in a way I don’t expect.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t list the things I could still do if I just applied myself.

She just nods. “I’m sorry we didn’t see this sooner.”

I breathe in slow. “Thank you.”

It’s not a movie ending. There’s no swelling score or perfect bow. But it’s more than I thought I’d get.

After dinner, I head downstairs, sit on my bed, and pull out my phone.

There’s a text from Ragnar—just a photo of Howl with one of my socks in his mouth.

I laugh under my breath and reply with a picture of Pebbles sitting next to Fernie Sanders.

Me:

Pebbles is settling in nicely. They want a puppy, too.

He responds a minute later.

Ragnar:

Anything you need, saet stelpa mín.