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My leg shakes, bouncing my laptop as I balance it on my thighs. Everything feels foggy, and it’s difficult to know if the words written on the screen make any sense at all. Much like my room.

I can’t find my comforter. Where could it be if not on my bed?

My desk is covered in clothing; half-filled water bottles and old protein shakers litter the surface.

I’ve tried cleaning but I’m sure…

My eyes snag on a team photo from last season—it’s tacked to the corkboard by the door.

My team. Right. That’s what I was doing.

We have an away game on Wednesday, and as much as I appreciate my teammates standing by me, I can’t let them down for my own selfish reasons.

So despite all reason, I stopped taking my meds . All traces of them should be out of my system by today.

None of my roommates know, because if they did, they’d be losing their shit. Rightfully so. I’m putting myself and my team in a really horrendous position, but it’s just for a few days. As soon as I pass that test, I’ll start taking them again. Problem solved. I hope.

Except, my thoughts are already feeling too jumbled, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of what I need to accomplish today.

I chalk that up to withdrawal symptoms and push the thought from my mind, staring at my laptop screen, preparing to hit “send” on the email I drafted to Rafael.

It takes longer than I’d like to steady my wavering hands and actually go through with it, but within seconds of sending it, a response stares back at me.

All the email says is, “Okay.”

Who’d have thought that a single word would be capable of fuelling so much anxiety?