Page 85 of Fault Line

During the lunch recess, when I reunite with Holden, he instantly notices something’s wrong. He takes my hand, guiding me to a quiet corner away from the bustling crowds.

“Hey,” he says gently, “What’s going on?”

I inhale a deep breath, attempting to articulate my feelings without sounding completely unhinged. “I don’t really know,” I admit, my voice quivering. “I think that being here has just made me feel very underprepared.”

He wraps an arm around me, and I lean into his comforting embrace. “Hey,” he says, tipping my chin. “You’re gonna do great things, baby. And besides, we’re all just here to learn and grow. There’s no need to compare ourselves to anyone else.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I mumble against his chest.

He pulls back, takes my hand again, and says, “Come on, let’s go get some lunch and regroup.”

We make our way to the buffet table to grab some food, and finally, I unwind. Holden listens intently as I ramble on about my applications, offering support and encouragement where he can. I allow myself to relax in his presence for a moment, feeling a little more like myself already by the time we finish lunch.

The rest of the symposium is a blur of lectures and presentations, and with my nerves at bay, I can fully focus on the content. I take copious notes, determined to absorb as much information as possible.

During my last session of the day, I find myself sitting beside the same group of undergrads from earlier. They’re discussing their application process, and I try to tune them out at first, but their conversation’s too interesting to ignore.

“Have you guys applied to Coastal yet?” one of them asks, and my ears perk up.

“Yeah, I submitted for early decision last week,” another says, sounding confident. “I’d been working on my personal statement for months, and I had solid recs from our department heads.”

“Same here,” a third student chimes in. “I studied for the GRE for months, and now I’m just waiting on scores. I feel like I’ve done everything I can to prepare.”

The first student shakes their head. “I still need to retake the GRE. I’m really fucking nervous about it.”

“Don’t be,” the second student reassures them. “Just give yourself plenty of time to study and take a few more practice exams. You’ll do fine.”

As I listen in, a knot forms in my stomach. I’ve been so consumed with my dissertation—and my newfound relationship with Holden—that I haven’t dedicated as much time to this as I should have.

And now, I feel so fucking far behind.

“Yeah, I’ve got a spreadsheet going of every school in the states,” the first student continues. “Their deadlines, what materials I need to submit for each one. I’ve been researching the directors of each program and tailoring my application and essays to fit them.”

Oh God. My heart fully plummets into my stomach. I haven’t started a spreadsheet, let alone tailored my applications to each individual school board.

Their conversation ends, and my self-assurance slips away with it. I thought I had everything under control, but hearing them talk about how much work they’ve done and how prepared they are makes me feel like a complete failure.

As I make my way back to the main area, I’m on the verge of a thought spiral. How am I going to compete with students who have spent months preparing, specially tailoring their applications, and have already submitted for early decision?

There’s still a fucking month left until the deadline, and I’ve barely worked up the courage to ask Dr. Khatri for a letter.

At this rate, how can I even hope to compete?

No matter what I do, I can’t shake off this feeling of inadequacy, of being so far behind. The rest of the symposium flies by, but I can’t concentrate on anything. All I can think about is how underprepared I am for the next step in my academic journey.

And by the time I’ve conferred back with Holden and our advisor, I’m ready and waiting to get the hell out of this place. I need to spiral and panic alone, at home, in the comfort of my own bedroom.

* * *

I’mquiet on the drive home, all two hours spent in silence with Holden attempting to break through my shell.

I’ll talk to him about it eventually, I swear, but I need a little more time to get my head together first. I’m afraid I’ll lash out if he asks me even one wrong question, and I don’t want to do that to him.

I can only hope he’s willing to grant me the time and space to calm myself down, to work out how I’m feeling, and to come to him when I’m ready.

He pulls into a spot in front of my apartment and cuts the engine, running a hand through his hair before he turns to me. “Want me to come up?” he asks.

“I think I just need to spend some time by myself tonight. If I can just, like, make a couple of spreadsheets and a detailed timeline, then I’ll feel a little bit better.”

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