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Chapter twelve

Daphne

The campus is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing. Downstairs, music thumps from the common room, and bursts of laughter echo through the halls. Girls in the corridor are talking about a football party, their voices shrill with excitement, but I’ve stayed put. Marcie, from my communications class, texted me earlier, asking if I wanted to go with her and her friends. But the weight of my open notebook and unfinished project keeps me anchored here.

Liv would judge me for being in on a Friday night.

I press the off button on my laptop with a sigh, the screen going black and leaving me staring at my reflection. My hair’s pulled into a messy bun, my sweatshirt worn thin at the elbows, and my face…it’s tired. I look like someone who’s been stuck inside her head all day.

Leaning back in my chair, I stare at my planner like it’s my mortal enemy, which it isn’t, because I love planning. The pages are immaculate, color-coded blocks, neatly written reminders, and tiny doodles in the margins. It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like the weight of my own expectations is crushing me.

My eyes skim over the list of things I’ve already skipped this week: Dad’s game, lunch with Marcie, and a video call with Finn. The guilt gnaws at me. A pink Post-it catches my eye, stuck crookedly to the top corner of today’s page. “Follow up on social media strategy!” it reads in bold black ink, and beneath it, a messy scribble says, “Make it perfect.”

Perfect . It’s always the goal, isn’t it? Perfect grades, perfect plans, perfect daughter. Except I’m already failing on every front. I’m at the beginning stages of burnout and we’re only in October. A truth I don’t want to admit is, maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. No amount of heavy planning can fix that.

I grab my pen, hovering over the planner. My chest tightens. All I want is to cross something off, to feel like I’m in control again. But every time I think about picking up my PR project, my brain freezes. The only thing I can think about is how I might not get it right, then I’d be letting people down, and I hate that feeling.

I don’t just want this project to be good; I need it to be great. To prove to everyone, my classmates, my professors, even my parents, that I can do this. That I’m capable of doing what I want to do, what I set out to do.

But the harder I push myself, the worse it gets. The ideas feel flat, like they’re coated in sandpaper.

Tossing the pen onto the desk with a frustrated huff, I press my forehead against the cool edge. “Get it together, Daphne,” I mutter under my breath.

The notebook lies open in front of me, the one I showed to Professor Vance. Its pages are filled with notes, arrows connecting ideas, and one phrase circled in bold: #WomenPlayToo. Picking it up, my pen taps against the corner as the words stare back at me. How do I make people care? How can I get them to see what I see?

Doodling absentmindedly on the edge of the page, my brain searches for something that feels relevant. The pen traces a circle over and over until my hand aches. When the frustration builds too high, the pen slams against the desk. My vision is crystal clear, but getting there feels impossible… Too big, too overwhelming. How am I meant to make this perfect? How can I make women feel seen in the same way men do in their sports?

This has to be good, to get myself in whoever’s good graces I need for my future. But not just that, it’s for every little girl who plays soccer on Saturdays because she loves it. It’s for every single girl ever told she wasn’t strong enough or tall enough. The truth is, seeing women exposed for their hard work is the biggest inspiration of all.

A buzz cuts through my thoughts. My phone lights up with a text from Marcie: You’re missing out! Wildcats won tonight and everyone is celebrating. Come join us, girlie x

The message lingers on the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The idea of grabbing a red cup and blending into the noise tempts me for a moment. Pretending to care about who’s making out in the corner or who’s drunk-texting their ex might distract me. But it feels hollow, a temporary fix that won’t loosen the knot in my chest.

Instead, I push the notification aside, grab my notebook, and slip on my sneakers. The cool night air calls to me, refreshing and calm, the opposite of everything buzzing inside my head.

The campus courtyard is empty, the lampposts casting long shadows across the grass. I find my thinking spot near the giant oak tree. I can’t brave the floor tonight, so I opt for the bench near the building opposite instead. It’s cold but not freezing, plus this is far enough from the dorm noise to think, but close enough to feel like I’m not completely alone. The air smells like damp earth and fall leaves, and I hug my notebook to my chest, letting the coolness settle over me.

I flip to a fresh page, scrawling “Why Women’s Sports Matter” at the top. The words come faster now, spilling out in bursts or facts that I know:

Female athletes receive less than 5% of sports media coverage.

Women’s soccer teams still fight for equal pay despite outperforming men’s teams internationally.

Young girls drop out of sports at twice the rate of boys.

Each bullet point lands like a punch to my gut. These aren’t just stats; they’re the reasons I care, the reasons this work matters. But why does it feel like no matter how many facts I write, I’m still shouting into the void?

Welcome to my life. I’m a perfectionist and I hate it.

I want my own voice, but what does that even sound like? And how do I refine it to be heard?

Frustration bubbles inside me, I want to learn everything all at once instead of taking four long years of learning. My head is buzzing with hope and enthusiasm that feels quickly squashed when I remember I’m only a freshman.

What would people think if they knew I wasn’t perfect? That I can barely keep up, let alone stand out?

The sharp sting of tears pricks at my eyes, and I blink them away quickly. No. Not now. I take a deep breath, forcing the lump in my throat back down, and flip to a clean page in the notebook. There’s no use in falling apart.

My phone buzzes again, vibrating against the stone step. I glance at the screen, and my twin brother’s name flashes across it. Finn. I hesitate for a moment before answering.

“Hey.” I try to sound normal. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, skipping right past any greeting. His voice is steady but laced with concern, and it sends a pang through me.

Biting my lip, I press my pen into the paper. “I’m fine. Just went for a walk. I needed some air.”

“You were spiraling. I could feel it,” he says, ignoring my lie. We’ve always had that thing where we can sense when the other twin isn’t quite right. Mom and Dad called it our “twin senses.” It’s not anything supernatural or weird; it’s just if he’s hurt, I think I feel it and vice versa.

I let out a large breath. “It’s just…” I pause, finding the words.

“Is it Dad being overbearing?”

“No, I’ve actually barely seen him on campus.” Another bow of guilt snaps at that.

Finn chuckles. “How have you managed that? I bet he’s been blowing your phone up, though.”

“He has,” I say with an empty laugh, feeling slightly guilty I haven’t seen him.

“So what is it?” he asks. “Someone break your heart already? You failing classes and need to come on my Australian adventure to escape?”

“Please,” I grumble. “I’m trying not to think about the fact that you’re halfway across the world.”

“So spill,” he insists.

“I’ve been working on this PR project, and it’s so important to me to make a good first impression with this, because I want this to be my major. But I keep getting in my own way.”

“Okay, so talk it out with me.”

I release a heavy sigh, already knowing the root of my issues. “I’m not even sure where to start with the worries.” The reality of voicing my fears is scary too, but Finn has always listened to me and been the levelheaded one of us. “I’m worried that maybe I’ve taken on more than I can handle. I had to drop track already because I just couldn’t commit with my courseload.”

There’s a pause on the other end, just the sound of him breathing as he takes in my words. When he speaks, his voice is calm, grounding. “If you need to scale back, no one is going to judge you. Aren’t freshman meant to party all the time anyway?”

I scoff in answer, so unlikely that’s going to happen.

“Listen,” he continues. “You’ve always cared about things other people barely notice, and that’s what makes you different. You’ve got this fire, this drive, and yeah, maybe not everyone sees it. But I do. And if letting something go means it keeps you going, then just do it.”

Tears well in my eyes again, but this time, I don’t fight them. “It just feels like no matter how hard I work, it’s not going to be enough, and the starting point to this particular hill feels really freaking high. I want to know all the things already. And what if… What if I can’t do this?”

“You can,” he says firmly. “And if you mess up sometimes? So what? That’s part of it, Daph. You’re a freshman. It’s all about messing up at this stage. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about caring enough to try. And you’re doing that, even if you don’t see it. But you have to let yourself breathe, too.”

I laugh softly, wiping a fallen tear from my cheek. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Because I’m brilliant,” he teases, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “But so are you. You’re doing better than you think.”

I let his words sink in, the knot in my chest loosening slightly. “Thanks, Finn.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “Now, stop worrying so much and go kick ass on that project. Or, you know, call me again if you need more motivational speeches. I’ve got plenty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, smiling now. “Don’t you have a surf competition to prep for? Shouldn’t you be worrying about the waves instead of me?”

He laughs, and it reminds me of home, of growing up with him by my side always. Having each other to lean on, tell secrets to, telepathically communicate in our twin way. “Waves come and go. You’re stuck with me forever. But yeah, I’ll go practice, on one condition.”

“What?”

“That you call me the next time you feel like this, okay? No shutting me out. I’m never too busy or too far away for my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister,” I say, chuckling.

“Good thing too, because I can only handle one of you.”