Memo — 6:03 a.m.
This is supposed to be a normal year.
I don't know who I'm trying to convince.
Myself, probably.
Normal feels like a foreign word.
Like something other girls get — the girls who wake up happy, brush their hair without overthinking it, walk into school like they belong.
I want quiet.
I want safety.
I want to exist without feeling like a cracked mirror.
But mostly…
I want to get through senior year without collapsing.
Is that too much to ask?
I close my Notes app and stare at the ceiling, listening to Levi bang around in the kitchen downstairs. He doesn't try to be loud; he just is. Heavy footsteps, clattering pans, the chaotic symphony of a twenty-three-year-old man pretending he's got his life together.
I roll out of bed and glance out my window. Fog hangs over Barnes Park, thick and low. The football field looks ghostly in the gray morning. I swear that place holds its breath before sunrise — like it knows secrets it shouldn't.
I tug my hoodie sleeves over my wrists. A habit. A shield. A warning.
Levi yells up the stairs, "Harm! You alive up there?"
"Unfortunately!" I call back.
His laugh echoes through the house. Warm. Annoying. Safe.
I make my way downstairs. Levi is flipping eggs with the enthusiasm of someone pretending to enjoy mornings.
"There she is," he says. "Senior year. You excited?"
I shrug, grabbing my backpack. "Define excited."
Levi raises an eyebrow. "Harm…"
"Please don't say 'fresh start.'"
He grins. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"I don't believe you."
He hands me a plate I won't eat. "You're gonna be okay. I mean it."
"You always mean it."
"And I'm always right."
I wish I could believe that.
Walking to school helps.
North Street is quiet this early — damp pavement, crunchy leaves, the Sugar River humming under the bridge. I stop for a second midway across and just breathe. The cold air settles something in me.
Walking is the only time my brain doesn't chew on itself.
I jot it into my memo before I forget.
By the time I hit Opera House Square, students are already heading toward Stevens High. I tug my hood lower, trying to look invisible and failing instantly.
"HARMONY!"
Danny slams into me like a golden retriever with arms.
"I missed you so much, oh my god," she says, squeezing me.
"You saw me on FaceTime yesterday."
"Not the same."
Pierce approaches next, earbuds in, offering a quiet "Hey, Harm." His smiles are always these soft, fleeting things — like snowflakes.
Emily waves with her planner already open. "Happy first day! I color-coded our schedules!"
I love Emily. I love her planner less.
Trinity storms over, glaring at a freshman who bumped my shoulder. "You got a problem?"
"Trinity, please," I sigh.
"People need to learn personal space," she mutters.
Then I hear him.
"Morning, Harmony."
Tyler.
I don't flinch when he touches my arm — not even a little. That's rare for me. Too rare, probably.
His smile is crooked, easy, soft around the edges. "You good?"
I nod, even though he can see straight through it.
Tyler is the only person — besides Levi — who knows everything. My past. My identity. The parts of me I keep locked behind ribs and fear. I told him because he felt… steady. Like a lighthouse, not a flashlight.
Danny is my best friend, my chaos, my constant —
but Tyler is the person I trust with the truth.
And I don't know what that means.
Or maybe I do, and that scares me more.
His eyes flick down to my sleeves — not judging, not pitying, just checking. "Bad morning?"
"Just a morning," I say.
He bumps my shoulder. "Well… you made it. That's something."
And it is.
The hallway hits me like a wave — slamming lockers, echoing voices, everything too bright, too sharp. I drop my gaze, counting my breaths.
A locker explodes open behind me.
I jump so hard I almost drop my phone.
Danny grips my arm. "Hey, hey. It's okay. Deep breath."
I inhale. Exhale.
Focus on her hand.
Ground myself.
I'm not back at my old school.
I'm not in that hallway.
Nobody is yelling at me.
Nobody is grabbing me.
Nobody is—
I shake my head. Keep walking.
Homeroom feels like a holding cell.
My mind drifts.
Therapy floats into my thoughts.
My therapist's too-soft voice.
"Have you tried journaling?"
"Maybe this is just teen stress?"
"Let's focus on positive thinking."
Positive thinking doesn't cure bipolar.
Or PTSD. Or depression.
Or being outed before you were ready.
Or the fear that follows you into every hallway.
I open my Notes app again.
Memo — 9:36 a.m.
If I keep my head down, maybe this year will be quiet.
If I don't talk too much, maybe no one will look too closely.
If nothing happens… Maybe I can be okay.
Maybe.
I lock my phone and stare at the front of the classroom.
Day one.
Hour one.
Step one.
I want normal.
I want quiet.
I want a year that doesn't break me.
But something deep in my chest whispers a truth I don't want to hear:
Nothing stays normal for me.
Not for long.