Running Into Lampposts

Emma was twelve years old the first time she understood that her insides didn't match everyone else's.

It was a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way except one. Mrs Patterson had handed back their history essays with her usual brisk efficiency, moving down the rows of desks with a stack of marked papers. Emma had worked on hers for hours, rewriting the introduction four times until her hand cramped. She'd checked every date twice, made sure her handwriting was neat, added extra details she'd found in the library.

When Mrs Patterson placed the essay face-down on Emma's desk without comment, Emma's stomach dropped. The teacher paused at Sarah Zimmerman's desk two rows over, saying, 'Excellent work, Sarah. Really thoughtful analysis.'

Emma's hands shook as she turned over her paper. B+. A perfectly respectable mark. Good, even. But not excellent. Not thoughtful.

The pain started in her chest, a physical ache that spread outwards until her whole body felt bruised. Her throat closed. Her vision blurred. Mrs Patterson hadn't praised her because the essay was rubbish, which meant Emma was rubbish, which meant she'd never be good enough, never be the kind of student teachers remembered fondly, never matter to anyone.

She knew, somewhere beneath the panic, that this was an overreaction. Sarah's essay had probably been genuinely better. A B+ was good. Mrs Patterson's silence didn't mean personal rejection.

But knowing didn't touch the feeling. The feeling was absolute, crushing, undeniable.

Emma had spent the rest of that lesson in the toilets, crying silently in a locked cubicle, convinced she'd ruined everything. By the time she emerged, red-eyed and shaky, she'd made a decision: she would be perfect. She would work twice as hard, be twice as good, never give anyone a reason to overlook her again.

Four years later, she was still trying.

And still losing hours to other worlds. To the sprawling campaigns of Baldur's Gate, where choices mattered and you could reload if you made the wrong one. To Brandon Sanderson novels, where broken people developed magic systems to cope with their trauma. To tabletop games at her dad's flat, where dice determined outcomes and failure was just part of the story

Those worlds made sense in ways the real one didn't.

 ## Part 1: The Mask

Emma straightened the stack of revision cards on her desk for the third time that morning, aligning the edges until they formed a perfect rectangle. The Biology terminology stared back at her, each word a small victory she'd wrestled from the chaos in her head. If anyone looked at her desk now, they'd see only organisation, control, competence.

They wouldn't see the three hours she'd spent last night creating the cards when thirty minutes would have done. They wouldn't see the knot of anxiety that lived permanently between her shoulder blades, tightening whenever someone's gaze lingered on her a second too long. They wouldn't see that she'd rewritten her English essay twice already, each version nearly identical to the last, because the first hadn't felt 'good enough.'

They also wouldn't see the minimised window on her laptop where her Elden Ring character was frozen mid-boss fight, abandoned at 2 AM when exhaustion finally won over hyperfocus. Or the copy of 'The Way of Kings' face-down on her bedside table, bookmark moved perhaps three pages in the last week because her brain refused to let her read for pleasure when exams loomed. The guilt of neglected hobbies sat alongside the guilt of the messy room, the unfinished coursework, the constant fear of disappointing everyone.

The morning light filtered through her bedroom curtains, catching the dust motes that danced above her supposedly pristine workspace. Emma's eyes tracked them, her mind already wandering despite her best efforts. She had a practice exam paper to complete before lunch, Chemistry equations to memorise, and a message from Rhys that she'd read seventeen times since waking.

Morning. Excited for Friday? x

Such a simple text. So few words. Yet Emma had spent twenty minutes analysing them, searching for hidden meanings in the casualness of his greeting. Was 'excited' the right word? Should he have been more enthusiastic? The single kiss at the end felt perfunctory somehow, less warm than yesterday's message, which had ended with three.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. This is ridiculous. Rhys is lovely.

And he was. Kind, patient, with a dry sense of humour that caught her off guard and made her laugh in a way that felt unselfconscious and real. He'd held her hand in the corridor yesterday, right in front of his mates, and hadn't seemed remotely embarrassed. He'd even started playing Stardew Valley because she'd mentioned loving it, sending her screenshots of his chaotic farm layout that made her genuinely smile. Friday was their three-month anniversary, their first proper date night since exams had started consuming everything.

Everything was fine.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Rhys.

Sorry, that was a boring text. I mean I'm really excited. Been thinking about it all week. Can't wait to see you x x

The relief was instant and overwhelming, flooding through her like warmth. See? He did care. She'd been worrying over nothing. Emma typed back quickly, then deleted it, then typed again, trying to match his tone without seeming too keen or not keen enough.

Me too! Going to be lovely x x

She stared at her response. Was 'lovely' the right word? Did it sound too formal? Should she have added another kiss? Before she could overthink further, she hit send and immediately regretted it.

Emma opened Instagram whilst waiting for a response, immediately regretting it. Her feed was full of carefully curated lives: Chloe at some party Emma hadn't been invited to (or had she? had Emma missed a message?), Marcus and the football lads looking effortlessly happy, a girl from her English class posting aesthetic study photos with the caption 'smashing revision! ☕📚✨'

Emma's last post was from three weeks ago. She'd spent an hour editing a photo of her bookshelf to look casually intellectual, then another hour writing and rewriting the caption before settling on something she now thought was try-hard and embarrassing. The post had seventeen likes. Sarah Zimmerman's similar post had sixty-three.

She checked Rhys's profile. His last post was from yesterday: a photo with his mates, all of them grinning. Emma scanned the background obsessively. Was that a girl's hand in the corner? Why hadn't he mentioned going out? The comments were full of inside jokes Emma didn't understand.

She closed the app before she could spiral further, but the damage was done. Everyone else was living these full, connected lives whilst Emma was alone in her room, overthinking text messages and failing at basic human existence.

Her stomach churned. She forced herself to look away from the phone, to focus on the revision cards. Mitochondria. Ribosomes. Endoplasmic reticulum. The words swam together, refusing to lodge in her memory despite the elaborate colour-coding system she'd devised.

Her gaze drifted to her bookshelf, where her battered copy of 'The Name of the Wind' sat spine-out, calling to her. She could lose herself in Kvothe's story for a few hours. Forget about exams and relationships and the constant performance of being normal. But that would mean falling behind, disappointing everyone, proving she was as lazy and unfocused as she feared.

Downstairs, the radio played faintly. Her mother was humming along, off-key. Emma should go down, have breakfast, be a normal person having a normal morning. Instead, she sat frozen, caught in the familiar paralysis of trying to start a task her brain insisted was insurmountable.

Just stand up. Just walk to the door. Why was this so difficult?

Her stomach rumbled, but the thought of going downstairs to eat felt overwhelming. Food had become complicated lately. Some days she forgot to eat entirely, too absorbed in revision or gaming to notice hunger. Other days she'd find herself standing in front of the open fridge at midnight, eating whatever she could find because the anxiety had become unbearable and food was the only thing that quieted it temporarily. And increasingly, there were days when she'd look at her body in the mirror and think that maybe if she were thinner, smaller, took up less space, people wouldn't find her so exhausting. Maybe if she could just control this one thing, everything else would feel more manageable.

Her mother had commented last week: 'You've lost weight. Are you eating properly?' And Emma had felt that familiar stab of panic, wondering if the comment was concern or criticism, whether her mother thought she looked better or worse, whether she was doing this right or wrong. She'd mumbled something about exam stress and changed the subject.

Her phone buzzed again.

Perfect. I'll pick you up at 7? x x x

Three kisses this time. Emma allowed herself a small smile. Stop analysing everything. Just be happy.

She was reaching for the Chemistry textbook when her mother's voice cut through her thoughts.

'Emma!' Her mother's voice carried up the stairs with the particular tone that meant she was already annoyed. 'Are you actually working up there or just shuffling papers about?'

Emma's jaw tightened. 'Working, Mum.'

Footsteps on the stairs. Emma's stomach clenched. She could predict what was coming with the accuracy of someone who'd lived this scene hundreds of times before. Her eyes darted around the room, seeing it suddenly through her mother's eyes: the pile of clothes draped over her chair, the three half-empty water glasses on the windowsill, the textbooks scattered across the floor because she'd been comparing sources at midnight and hadn't got round to putting them away. The Xbox controller on her bed from last night's gaming session that had stretched far too long. The scattered d20s from the character sheet she'd been working on for her dad's campaign.

She should tidy. She meant to tidy. But by the time she got home from school each day, maintaining the appearance of a functional human being had drained every reserve of energy she possessed. The mess wasn't laziness. It was evidence of survival.

Her mother appeared in the doorway, already mid-sigh. Her gaze swept the room, snagging on each piece of disorder, her expression tightening incrementally. Her eyes lingered on the gaming controller with particular disapproval.

'You need to sort out this mess, honestly.' Her mother crossed her arms, the universal gesture of maternal disappointment. 'Sometimes I wonder how you manage. And you were up late gaming again, weren't you? I could hear you through the floor.'

The words landed like physical blows. Emma felt her chest constrict, her face flush hot. The revision cards blurred in front of her. Her hands, resting on the desk, began to tremble slightly.

Sometimes I wonder how you manage.

Not 'the room is messy.' Not 'please tidy up.' But a fundamental questioning of Emma's capability, her worth, her ability to function as a human being. Her mother might as well have said, 'Sometimes I wonder why you're such a disappointment.'

Emma wanted to explain that the mess was exhaustion, that keeping up the appearance of competence at school drained every ounce of energy she possessed, that by the time she got home she could barely remember to eat, let alone tidy her room. She wanted to say that the gaming wasn't procrastination, it was the only time her brain felt quiet, where the constant anxiety about not being enough simply stopped for a few hours. That she was trying, always trying, and it was never enough.

But her throat had closed. The criticism wasn't about the mess, her brain insisted. It was about her. Her fundamental wrongness, her inability to be what her mother needed, the disappointment she caused just by existing.

'I'll sort it,' Emma managed, her voice smaller than she'd intended. Quieter. The voice of someone who'd already lost an argument they hadn't been allowed to have.

'You always say that.' Her mother's tone had softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. Pity was worse than anger. 'Just try to keep on top of things, love. You'll feel better if you're organised. And maybe less time on those games? Your A-levels are more important than pretend adventures.'

Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, she might cry, and crying would prove she was exactly as oversensitive and dramatic as she feared everyone secretly thought. And her adventures weren't pretend. They were the only place she felt competent, capable, like she could actually succeed at something without the constant weight of potential failure crushing her chest.

When the door closed, Emma sat frozen, staring at the revision cards she could no longer see properly through the blur in her eyes. The pain in her chest was real, physical, crushing. Like someone had reached inside and squeezed her heart until it couldn't beat properly. Her hands had gone numb. The room felt too small and too large simultaneously, the walls pressing in whilst the floor dropped away beneath her chair.

She was useless. Lazy. Pretending to be capable when really she was just barely holding everything together with willpower and lies. Her mother could see through it. Everyone could probably see through it. She was a fraud, and eventually, inevitably, everyone would realise.

The shame was a living thing, coiled in her stomach. Shame that she couldn't manage something as simple as keeping her room tidy. Shame that such a mild comment had devastated her. Shame that she was sitting here, nearly in tears, over nothing.

Pull yourself together, she commanded silently. You're being ridiculous. It was just a comment about your room. Normal people don't fall apart over this.

But the pain didn't ease. If anything, the shame intensified it. She was broken, and she was broken in a way that made her ashamed of being broken, a recursive spiral with no bottom.

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up with numb fingers.

Are you okay? You've gone quiet.

Rhys. Of course he'd noticed. She'd taken too long to respond to his last message. He could tell something was wrong, which meant she was being too transparent, too needy, too much. She was suffocating him with her neediness, and he was too polite to say so directly.

Emma stared at the words. Four minutes. She'd been silent for four minutes and he was already checking on her. That wasn't concern, her brain whispered. That was irritation. He was annoyed that she required this much emotional maintenance.

She typed, I'm fine! Just got distracted. See you Friday x x, and sent it before she could second-guess every word. Then she put the phone face-down and reached for her Chemistry textbook, determined to push through the despair that had settled over her like fog.

The equations swam on the page. She read the same line five times, comprehending nothing. Her mind kept returning to her mother's words, to Rhys's text, to the crushing certainty that she was disappointing everyone simply by being herself.

Her eyes drifted back to her bookshelf. To the comfort of familiar worlds where she understood the rules. Where effort actually led to progress. Where you could fail and try again without the weight of everyone's disappointment.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She just needed to work harder, be better, make people proud.

If she could manage that, maybe the pain would stop.

Part 2: The Performance

By the time Emma arrived at school, she'd reconstructed the mask with the precision of an expert. Her hair was neat, pulled back in a ponytail that suggested capability. She'd applied just enough makeup to hide the evidence of tears. Her uniform was immaculate. To anyone looking, she was exactly what she appeared to be: a high-achieving Year 12 student with her life together.

The common room was already buzzing with the particular energy of exam season, a mixture of genuine revision and performative stress. Emma scanned the room, cataloguing locations. Chloe was curled up in the corner armchair with her Psychology textbook. Rhys was at one of the tables with his mates, laughing at something on someone's phone.

Emma's stomach clenched. He looked relaxed. Happy. Not at all like someone who'd been worried about his girlfriend four hours ago. Which meant the concern had been perfunctory, or she'd annoyed him with her delayed response, or he'd already moved on because she simply didn't matter that much.

Stop it, she commanded herself. Just go over. Be normal.

She forced her feet to move, maintaining what she hoped was a casual pace. Not too eager. Not too distant. The exact right amount of pleased to see him.

Rhys looked up as she approached, his face breaking into a genuine smile that made her heart twist. 'There she is. All right?'

'Yeah, fine. Just had a slow morning.' Emma slid into the chair beside him, acutely aware of his friends watching. Did they think she was clingy? Did they wonder what Rhys saw in her?

'I was just telling them about Friday.' Rhys's hand found hers under the table, his thumb tracing absent circles on her palm. The gesture was casual, unconscious, and it made Emma want to cry with relief. 'Finally getting our proper date.'

'About time,' one of his friends, Marcus, said. 'You've been boring us about it for weeks.'

Rhys grinned, not embarrassed in the slightest, and Emma felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. See? He was excited. He told his friends. Everything was fine.

'What are you two doing?' another friend asked. 'Somewhere fancy?'

'That new Italian place in town,' Rhys said. 'The one that opened last month.'

'Very romantic.' Marcus waggled his eyebrows. 'Special occasion?'

'Three months,' Rhys said, squeezing Emma's hand. 'Figured we should celebrate properly.'

The warmth in his voice, the easy way he claimed their relationship in front of his friends, should have reassured Emma completely. But her brain was already whispering: he's only being nice because they're watching. He's performing for them, not because he actually cares.

The morning passed in a blur of lessons Emma barely absorbed. In English, she contributed to the discussion on Othello with thoughtful observations she'd prepared the night before, earning a nod of approval from Mr Davies. The validation sent a small rush of warmth through her chest, though it was immediately followed by anxiety. Had she said too much? Did she sound like a show-off?

At break, Chloe found her at their usual spot by the library.

'You look knackered,' Chloe said without preamble, unwrapping a cereal bar. 'Late night?'

'Just couldn't sleep.' Emma forced a smile. 'Too much on my mind, I suppose.'

'Excited about Friday?'

'Yeah, definitely.'

Chloe gave her a searching look. 'You sure you're all right? You seem a bit off.'

'I'm fine, honestly. Just exam stress, you know? And my mum was having a go at me this morning about my room being messy.' Emma tried to keep her voice light. 'The usual.'

'Ah, mothers.' Chloe rolled her eyes sympathetically. 'Mine's been on at me about spending too much time on TikTok when I should be revising. As if watching study motivation videos isn't basically revising.'

Emma laughed, but it felt hollow. It was easier to blame the exams, to make it about normal teenage stress. Everyone understood exam stress. No one understood the constant, exhausting vigilance required to interpret every interaction, to search for hidden meanings in casual comments, to prepare for inevitable rejection by everyone she cared about.

'Are you going to your dad's this weekend?' Chloe asked.

'Sunday, yeah. We're supposed to be doing a campaign session.' Emma felt a small flicker of genuine anticipation. 'If I can get through all my revision.'

'D&D, right? You've been playing that character for ages.'

'Nearly a year. She's a half-elf ranger who's absolutely terrible at social situations but excellent at tracking monsters.' Emma smiled slightly. 'Very relatable.'

'Your dad's cool about the gaming stuff, isn't he? My mum acts like I'm wasting my life if I'm not actively studying every second.'

'Yeah, Dad's good about it. He actually gets that it's not just mucking about.' Emma felt the familiar comfort of thinking about her dad's flat, where her hobbies were treated as legitimate interests rather than time-wasting distractions. 'Mum thinks it's all childish, though. Keeps saying I should focus on "real" things.'

'That's rubbish. Gaming takes proper skill. Problem-solving, strategic thinking, all that.'

'Try telling her that.'

The conversation moved on to other topics, but Emma found her attention drifting. She watched Chloe's face as she talked about her latest obsession with some true crime podcast, cataloguing every micro-expression. Was Chloe annoyed that Emma had brought up her parents? Did she think Emma was complaining too much? Was she already getting tired of being Emma's only real friend at school?

'Emma?' Chloe was looking at her expectantly. 'You zoned out again.'

'Sorry, what?'

'I asked if you wanted to revise together after school. Library?'

'Oh, yeah. That sounds good.' Emma forced her attention back to the present, ignoring the way her mind had drifted. She did that too often, losing time to her own thoughts, and people noticed. 'What subject?'

'I was thinking Psychology? I'm still struggling with that cognitive approaches module.'

'Sure. I can help with that.'

Helping with revision was concrete, useful, a way to prove her worth. If she could be helpful, she had value. If she had value, people might not leave.

At lunch, Emma sat with Rhys and his friends, participating in the conversation with carefully measured enthusiasm. Not too quiet, which would suggest she was uncomfortable. Not too loud, which would make her seem desperate for attention. Just enough to appear engaged without dominating.

She'd brought a lunch but left it unopened in her bag. The thought of eating in front of everyone, of being watched, of potentially having food on her face or eating too much or too little, felt impossible. Besides, her stomach was too knotted with anxiety to handle food right now. She'd eat later, she told herself. When she was alone. When no one could observe or comment.

It had become a pattern. Skipping lunch at school, then either forgetting dinner because she was too absorbed in something else, or eating everything she could find late at night when the day's accumulated anxiety became unbearable. She knew it wasn't healthy. Knew her body needed fuel. But eating had stopped being about hunger and become about control, about managing the constant threat of judgment.

'You not eating?' Marcus asked, nodding at her bag.

Emma's chest tightened. 'Had a big breakfast,' she lied smoothly. 'Still full.'

Emma's phone was face-up on the table, Instagram notifications lighting up the screen. Someone had tagged photos from last night. Emma's thumb hovered over the notification, knowing she shouldn't look but unable to stop herself.

There they were: photos from some gathering she hadn't known about. Or maybe she had known and her brain had filed it wrong, lost it in the constant noise. Chloe was there. And Rhys. Both of them looking like they were having the time of their lives.

Without her.

Emma's stomach dropped. She checked the date. Last Tuesday. When she'd said she was too busy with revision. They'd gone without her. Which meant they didn't really want her there anyway. She was the obligation invite, the one they had to ask but were relieved when she couldn't make it.

She locked her phone quickly, but her hands had started shaking.

It was exhausting.

She watched Rhys talk about his Physics revision, the way his face animated when he explained something he found interesting. She loved that about him, the genuine enthusiasm he had for things. He didn't seem to second-guess himself the way she did, didn't seem to carry the constant weight of wondering if he was too much or not enough.

What must that be like? To just exist without the perpetual anxiety?

'Emma?' Rhys was looking at her expectantly. 'You zoned out. I asked if you wanted to come to the library after school? Few of us are doing a revision session.'

'Oh, sorry. Yeah, that sounds good.' Emma forced her attention back to the present, ignoring the way her mind had drifted. 'What subject?'

'Chemistry. Thought you could help me with equilibrium. I'm hopeless at it.'

'You're not hopeless.' Emma felt herself relax slightly. This she could do. Helping with revision was concrete, useful, a way to prove her worth. 'I'll bring my notes.'

'Legend. You're basically going to carry me through this exam.'

The casual praise should have felt good. Instead, it triggered a new anxiety: what happened when exams were over? When Rhys didn't need her help anymore? When her usefulness had expired and he realised she was just a high-maintenance girlfriend with nothing to offer?

The afternoon dragged. Emma's History class felt interminable, Mr Peterson's voice washing over her whilst her mind wandered to Friday night. What should she wear? What would they talk about? What if she ran out of things to say and the silence stretched awkwardly and Rhys realised she was actually quite boring when she wasn't explaining Chemistry concepts or discussing fantasy novels?

She forced herself to take notes, her handwriting neat and careful, creating the appearance of engagement. By the time the bell rang, her hand ached and she'd absorbed perhaps a quarter of the lesson.

The library was quiet when she arrived, just a handful of students scattered among the tables. Rhys and two of his friends had claimed a spot near the back, textbooks already spread out. Emma noticed Chloe at another table and waved, feeling guilty about double-booking herself.

Emma settled in beside Rhys, pulling out her colour-coded Chemistry notes. This was safe territory. When she was explaining concepts, she wasn't worrying about being too much or not enough. She was just being useful.

She walked Rhys through equilibrium calculations, drawing diagrams, simplifying the explanations until she saw the understanding click in his eyes.

'You're brilliant at this,' he said, grinning. 'Should've asked you ages ago.'

The praise sent warmth flooding through her, almost painful in its intensity. She mattered. She was useful. He needed her.

The thought immediately twisted into anxiety. What happened when he didn't need her anymore? When he'd passed his exams and her usefulness had expired?

Stop it, she told herself firmly. Just enjoy this.

But her brain wouldn't stop. It never did.

An hour into the revision session, Emma's phone vibrated with a text from her dad.

Still on for Sunday? Thought we could do character development for the new campaign arc. Also picked up that Sanderson book you mentioned x

Emma smiled genuinely for the first time that day. Her dad always remembered the small things. Always treated her interests as legitimate rather than frivolous.

She texted back: Definitely! Can't wait. Thanks for the book x

'Your dad?' Rhys asked, glancing at her phone.

'Yeah. We're doing D&D on Sunday.'

'That's cool. You've never invited me to one of those sessions.' Rhys's tone was curious, not accusatory, but Emma's brain immediately translated it as criticism.

'Oh, I just. I mean, it's usually just me and Dad and a couple of his mates. It might be boring for you.' Emma felt her face heat. 'And you're always busy on Sundays anyway.'

'I'd be interested though. If you wanted me there.'

Did she want him there? The thought of Rhys seeing her in full gaming mode, getting excited about dice rolls and character choices, making voices for NPCs, filled her with a confusing mixture of desire and terror. What if he thought it was childish? What if he didn't understand why it mattered to her?

'Maybe sometime,' Emma said noncommittally. 'Let me ask my dad.'

The conversation moved on, but Emma's anxiety had ratcheted up another notch. Now she had to worry about whether declining to invite Rhys made her seem secretive, whether he thought she was hiding something, whether this was the beginning of him realising she was too weird, too intense about strange hobbies, fundamentally not girlfriend material.

When they finished, Rhys leaned over and kissed her, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Emma felt herself relax into it for a moment before her brain kicked in with its usual commentary: Was that okay? Should you have done something different? Your breath probably smells like coffee. He's going to realise you're rubbish at this.

'You okay?' Rhys asked, pulling back slightly. 'You went tense.'

'Yeah, sorry. Just my brain being annoying.'

'What's it saying?'

Emma felt her face heat. 'That I'm probably terrible at kissing and you're too polite to say so.'

Rhys laughed, then kissed her again. 'You're not terrible. You're overthinking, but you're not terrible.' He rested his forehead against hers. 'I like kissing you. I wouldn't do it if I didn't.'

'Even when my brain is being ridiculous?'

'Especially then. Gives me an excuse to prove your brain wrong.'

By the time she got home at half past five, Emma could feel the mask beginning to crack. Her face ached from smiling. Her shoulders were rigid with tension. Her head throbbed.

She made it to her bedroom, closed the door, and allowed herself to simply stop.

The exhaustion hit like a physical force. She collapsed onto her bed, too drained to even remove her shoes. Her whole body felt heavy, as though gravity had intensified specifically for her. The idea of going back downstairs for dinner, of making conversation with her mother, of performing 'normal daughter' for another few hours, seemed impossible.

She should tidy her room. Should start on homework. Should do literally anything productive.

She should eat. She'd had nothing since a slice of toast that morning, and her hands were shaking from more than just emotional distress. But the thought of food made her nauseous. When the RSD was this bad, her appetite disappeared entirely. Her body seemed to shut down all non-essential functions, and apparently eating counted as non-essential.

Part of her noticed this with clinical detachment. The way stress killed her appetite. The way she'd lost nearly half a stone in the past month without really trying. The way her jeans hung loose on her hips. Some distant part of her brain whispered that this was concerning, that she should probably tell someone.

But another part whispered that maybe this was good. Maybe if she were smaller, lighter, less substantial, she'd be less of a burden. Less trouble. Easier to love.

Instead, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, her mind blessedly blank with exhaustion. Her eyes drifted to her Switch on the bedside table. She could lose herself in Hades for a few hours. The repetitive action of another run, the satisfaction of gradual progress, the beautiful art and compelling story. But that would mean more disappointment from her mother, more evidence that she was wasting time, more guilt to add to the ever-growing pile.

This was the part no one saw. The aftermath of a day spent maintaining the appearance of competence. The complete depletion that came from constantly monitoring herself, adjusting her behaviour, ensuring she was acceptable.

Her phone buzzed. She didn't check it. Couldn't. The thought of parsing another message, of crafting an appropriate response, was beyond her current capacity.

Tomorrow she'd reassemble herself. Tomorrow she'd put the mask back on and pretend everything was fine.

But for now, in the safety of her room, she allowed herself to be exactly what she was: exhausted, anxious, and barely holding together.

Her Xbox controller sat on her bed where she'd left it that morning. Emma picked it up, turned it over in her hands. The familiar weight was comforting. She could boot up Skyrim, lose herself in a world where she understood the rules. Where effort led to tangible progress. Where you could save and reload if you made a catastrophic mistake.

But her mother's words echoed: Maybe less time on those games?

Emma set the controller down and closed her eyes instead. Tomorrow. She'd escape tomorrow.

 Part 3: The Fracture

Wednesday arrived with a text from Rhys that made Emma's chest tighten.

Drowning in Physics revision. Might need a rain check on tomorrow's coffee?

Might. The word sat there, ambiguous and terrifying. Not 'I need to cancel' but 'might need to,' which left Emma in limbo, unable to plan, unable to know. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, drafting and deleting responses.

No worries, let me know - too casual, suggested she didn't care

Of course, revision is important - too understanding, made her seem like a pushover

I was really looking forward to it - too needy, would make him feel guilty

She settled on That's fine, just let me know x and sent it before she could overthink further. Then spent the next twenty minutes wondering if 'that's fine' had sounded passive-aggressive.

At school, she found Chloe in the common room, already buried in her Psychology textbook.

'Morning,' Emma said, sliding into the chair beside her. 'Making progress?'

'Barely.' Chloe looked up, her hair in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes. 'This module is killing me. How are you doing with it?'

'All right, I think. Want me to go over anything?'

They spent the next hour working through cognitive approaches to treating depression, Emma explaining concepts whilst her mind churned with anxiety about Rhys's text. By the time they had to head to lessons, Chloe looked more confident and Emma felt marginally less useless.

Usefulness was currency. If she could be helpful, she had value. If she had value, people might not leave.

The logic was exhausting but inescapable.

Rhys found her at lunch, dropping into the chair across from her with an apologetic smile.

'About tomorrow,' he started, and Emma's stomach dropped. 'I think I'm going to have to cancel properly. My Physics exam is Monday and I'm properly behind.'

'Oh.' Emma forced her face into what she hoped was an understanding expression. 'That's okay. Exams are important.'

'You're sure? I feel terrible about it.'

'Honestly, it's fine.' The lie came easily, smoothly, the product of years of practice. 'We'll do it another time.'

Relief flooded Rhys's face. 'You're the best. I promise I'll make it up to you on Friday.'

Friday. Their anniversary date. At least that was still happening.

Unless it wasn't. Unless Rhys was already planning to cancel that too, but was waiting for the right moment. Unless this was the beginning of the slow fade, the gentle retreat that meant he'd realised she wasn't worth the effort.

Stop it, Emma commanded herself. He just needs to revise. This isn't personal.

But it felt personal. Everything felt personal.

'Actually,' Rhys said, pulling out his phone, 'I meant to ask. That Baldur's Gate game you're always talking about. Is it any good? Thought I might give it a try when exams are done. You could show me the ropes?'

Emma blinked, surprised. 'Really? You'd want to play it?'

'Yeah, why not? You get so excited when you talk about it. Must be doing something right.' He smiled. 'Plus it might be fun to do something together that you're into. I feel like I've been rubbish at showing interest in your hobbies.'

'You don't have to do that just for me.'

'I know I don't have to. I want to. You've been so patient helping me with Chemistry and listening to me go on about Physics. Seems only fair I engage with your stuff too.'

'I'd like that.' Emma felt a genuine smile forming. 'It's a massive game though. Like, hundred-plus hours.'

'Then we'll have plenty to do over summer, won't we?'

The casual assumption of a future together, of summer plans that included her, should have been reassuring. But Emma's brain immediately began cataloguing all the ways it could fall apart before summer arrived.

That evening, Emma sat at her desk, attempting to focus on her Politics coursework. The deadline was Friday, which should have been more than enough time, but she'd been staring at the same paragraph for forty minutes without adding a word.

Her mind kept returning to Rhys's cancellation, picking at it like a scab. He'd seemed relieved when she'd said it was fine. Which meant he'd been dreading telling her. Which meant he'd expected her to be difficult about it. Which meant he already thought of her as high-maintenance.

She was being ridiculous. She knew she was being ridiculous. But knowing didn't stop the thoughts, didn't ease the growing certainty that she was losing him.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her dad.

Your mum mentioned you've been stressed. Everything all right? Want to come over earlier on Sunday? We can just chat if you don't fancy gaming x

Emma felt tears prickle unexpectedly. Her dad always knew when something was wrong, even second-hand through her mother's complaints about unmade beds and late-night gaming sessions.

She typed back: I'm okay. Just exam stress. Sunday sounds good though. Maybe come over Saturday instead? x

The response came quickly: Absolutely. I'll make your favourite dinner. And if you want to talk about what's really bothering you, I'm here x

That was the difference between her parents. Her mother saw the surface mess and worried about practicalities. Her dad saw beneath it and worried about her.

Emma's phone buzzed again. A text from Rhys.

Thanks for being so understanding about tomorrow. I know I'm being boring with all this revision. Promise Friday will be worth the wait x x

Two kisses. Yesterday he'd sent three. The reduction felt significant, damning.

Emma read the message five times, searching for hidden meanings. 'I know I'm being boring' - was that an apology or an accusation? Was he implying she'd complained? Had she been too understanding, made it too easy for him to cancel?

She typed, You're not boring! Good luck with revision x x, and hit send. Then immediately regretted it. Should she have sent three kisses? Should she have said more?

The coursework document remained blank. The words wouldn't come. Her mind was too full of anxiety, too busy catastrophising about Friday to focus on political theory.

She'd just have to work on it tomorrow. And Friday morning. She'd pull it together. She always did.

Except sometimes she didn't.

Her eyes drifted to her Switch. Animal Crossing was calling to her. The gentle routine of it, the lack of real stakes, the satisfaction of a well-designed island. But it was already past nine and if her mother caught her gaming instead of working, there'd be another lecture about priorities and real life versus pretend worlds.

Emma pulled up Reddit instead, scrolling through the Baldur's Gate subreddit, reading other people's playthrough stories. Living vicariously through their adventures whilst her own character sat frozen, her game abandoned mid-quest because she couldn't justify the time.

Everything felt like that lately. Abandoned mid-quest because real life demanded her attention, but she couldn't quite make herself care about real life when it was all exams and anxiety and the constant fear of disappointing people.

At half past ten, she gave up on the coursework and went to bed, lying in the dark with her mind racing through every possible way Friday could go wrong.

 Part 4: The Unravelling

Thursday passed in a fog of mounting dread. Emma had managed perhaps two hundred words on her coursework, all of which read like incoherent rambling. Her mind refused to cooperate, skittering away from the task every time she tried to focus.

During lunch, she'd hidden in the library, claiming she needed to work but actually reading through old saved threads about character builds for a game she wasn't allowing herself to play. The guilt of wasted time sat alongside the guilt of everything else, a familiar weight.

Chloe had found her there, looking concerned.

'You've been weird all day. What's going on?'

'Nothing. Just stressed about coursework.'

'The Politics one? You've been working on that for ages. It's not like you to struggle.'

'I know. I just can't make my brain work properly.'

Chloe had looked at her thoughtfully. 'You know you can talk to me about stuff, right? If something's actually wrong?'

'I know. I'm fine though, honestly.'

Another lie. She was collecting them like trading cards.

By Thursday evening, Emma was properly panicking. The deadline was tomorrow at 4 PM. She had approximately eight hundred words written of a required three thousand. The words she did have made no sense. She should have started earlier, should have been more organised, should have been better.

Her mother had knocked on her door around seven, finding Emma staring blankly at her laptop screen.

'How's it going?'

'Fine.'

'Emma.' Her mother's voice held that warning tone. 'You've been up here for hours. Have you actually made progress?'

'Some.'

Her mother had sighed, that particular sigh that meant disappointment masked as concern. 'You know, if you spent less time on those games and more time on actual work, you wouldn't be scrambling at the last minute.'

'I haven't been gaming. I've been trying to work.'

'Well, try harder. These A-levels matter. They're your future. Not some fantasy world.'

After her mother left, Emma had put her head down on her desk and fought back tears. Her mother was right. She was wasting time, wasting opportunities, wasting her potential on hobbies that didn't matter whilst real life slipped away from her.

But the thought of giving up gaming, of abandoning the one place where her brain felt quiet and capable, made her want to disappear entirely.

At half past eight, her phone buzzed.

So sorry, stuck revising, can't make it. Catch up later.

Emma read the message once. Twice. Three times.

The words seemed to rearrange themselves each time, becoming sharper, more damning. He'd cancelled. Their anniversary date. With barely an explanation. Not even an apology that sounded genuine, just a perfunctory 'sorry' before the real message: he didn't want to see her.

The pain hit instantly, a wave of such intense emotional agony that Emma actually gasped. Her chest felt like it was caving in. Her eyes burned. The room tilted sideways and she gripped the edge of her desk, trying to breathe through what felt like a physical assault.

He was done with her. Of course he was. She'd been too clingy, too intense, too much in every possible way. The cancellation wasn't about revision, it was about escape. He'd realised what everyone eventually realised: that beneath the careful mask, Emma was fundamentally broken.

Her hands went numb. The sensation spread up her arms, her whole body going cold despite the warmth of her room. She couldn't get enough air. Each breath came shallow and rapid, her lungs refusing to expand properly.

This was it. The moment she'd been anticipating, dreading, since Rhys had first asked her out. The inevitable abandonment. She'd known it was coming. Had been preparing for it, really, cataloguing every sign that he was pulling away.

And she'd still let herself hope. Still let herself believe that maybe, this time, she wouldn't be too much. That maybe he'd be different.

How stupid. How pathetically, embarrassingly stupid.

Her vision tunnelled. The edges of her room went dark and fuzzy. Her hands shook as she typed and deleted half a dozen responses. It's okay. Too understanding, made her seem like a doormat. Why are you doing this? Too accusatory, would make him defensive. Please don't leave me. Too pathetic, would only confirm she was as needy as he clearly thought.

In the end, she sent nothing. Instead, she switched her phone to silent and shoved it into her desk drawer, unable to bear the possibility of further confirmation that Rhys had had enough.

The tears came then, hot and relentless. She pressed her face into her arms, trying to muffle the sobs. Her whole body shook with them, great heaving gasps that she couldn't control. The sounds that escaped her throat were almost animalistic, raw and desperate.

She was being ridiculous, she knew. People cancelled plans. It happened. But the knowledge didn't touch the pain, didn't ease the crushing certainty that she'd been abandoned. Didn't stop her mind from replaying every interaction with Rhys, searching for the exact moment when she'd become too much, the precise comment or gesture that had finally exhausted his patience.

Emma's mind kept circling back to Saturday night. They'd been at Rhys's house, his parents out, and things had got heated. Really heated. Further than they'd gone before. And Emma had been present for it, had actually enjoyed it without her brain screaming catastrophe the whole time.

But afterwards, lying in Rhys's arms, her brain had kicked in with a vengeance. He's seen all of you now. The body you hate. The weight you've lost that makes you look ill. The softness you can't control. He knows exactly what he's getting and he's regretting it.

Rhys had seemed fine in the moment. Had held her, told her she was beautiful, all the right things. But what if that was just politeness? What if he'd been horrified but too kind to say so?

And now he'd been quiet all week. Distant. The broken phone was probably an excuse. He was probably trying to figure out how to end things gently, how to let her down without being cruel.

The physical vulnerability of intimacy, the being seen and touched and known, had created a whole new category of catastrophe for her brain to obsess over. She'd opened herself up completely, and now Rhys was going to use that vulnerability to hurt her.

Stop it, she told herself. You're spiralling. None of this is real.

But it felt real. It felt absolutely, crushingly real.

She'd known this would happen. Had been waiting for it, really, since the moment Rhys had first smiled at her across the common room three months ago. No one stayed. Not when they discovered what she was really like underneath the performance. Not when they realised how much work she required, how much reassurance, how much constant validation just to feel minimally secure.

The physical pain was incredible. Her chest felt compressed, as though someone had wrapped steel bands around her ribs and was slowly tightening them. Her stomach churned with nausea. Her head throbbed with the force of crying, each sob sending spikes of pain through her temples.

Her phone buzzed in the drawer. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.

Emma didn't look. Couldn't. If Rhys was messaging to officially end things, she didn't want to know. If he was asking why she wasn't responding, she didn't have an answer that wouldn't make her sound completely unhinged.

The coursework deadline loomed in her peripheral awareness, but she couldn't bring herself to care. What was the point? She was going to fail anyway. Everything was falling apart, and she was powerless to stop it.

She pulled herself onto her bed, curling into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around her knees. The physical pain in her chest hadn't eased. If anything, it had intensified, a crushing weight that made each breath an effort. Her head throbbed. Her stomach churned with nausea. The room felt too bright, too loud, every sensation amplified and painful.

This was RSD, some distant part of her brain recognised. She'd read about it months ago, seen herself described with uncomfortable accuracy in articles about ADHD. Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. The extreme emotional pain in response to perceived rejection or criticism.

But knowing the name didn't help. Didn't make the pain less real. If anything, it made it worse, because now she knew this was just how her brain worked, that she'd feel this way forever, that every relationship would eventually reach this point where she became too much and people left.

Everyone would be better off without me, she thought distantly. Rhys could find someone less complicated, less demanding. Her parents wouldn't have to deal with a daughter who couldn't manage basic tasks, who wasted time on childish hobbies whilst her life fell apart. Chloe could have a friend who didn't require constant emotional maintenance.

The thought should have alarmed her. Instead, it felt like relief. Like a solution to an impossible problem.

No. That was dangerous thinking. She recognised it as dangerous, even through the fog of pain.

Emma forced herself to sit up, to breathe deliberately. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. The breathing exercise Chloe had shown her weeks ago, learned from some mindfulness app.

It helped, marginally. Enough to pull her back from the edge of that particular spiral.

But the pain remained. The crushing certainty of abandonment. The knowledge that she'd ruined everything by being herself.

She should text Rhys back. Should apologise for whatever she'd done wrong. Should beg him not to leave.

But pride, or self-preservation, or simple exhaustion, kept her from reaching for her phone.

Her eyes landed on her bookshelf, on the familiar spines of comfort reads. 'The Way of Kings' with its themes of broken people becoming heroes. 'The Name of the Wind' with its protagonist who masked his trauma behind performance. Stories where pain had meaning, where struggle led to growth, where being broken was the first step to being remarkable.

But this wasn't a story. This was her life, and in real life, being broken just meant being broken. There was no narrative arc leading to triumph. Just an endless cycle of trying and failing and disappointing everyone who'd ever cared about her.

Emma lay back down, pulled the duvet over her head, and let the darkness swallow her whole.

Her phone continued to buzz periodically in the drawer. Each vibration felt like an accusation. Each unanswered message more evidence of her failure to be a functional human being.

Somewhere around midnight, she heard her mother come upstairs, pause outside her door, then continue to her own room. Emma held her breath, terrified of confrontation, of having to explain why she was falling apart over a cancelled date whilst her coursework sat unfinished and her future crumbled around her.

The house settled into silence. Emma lay in the dark, her eyes open, her mind spinning through catastrophe after catastrophe. By morning, everyone would know what she was. By Monday, Rhys would have moved on. By the end of the year, she'd have failed her A-levels and proved her mother right about everything.

The weight of inevitability was almost comforting. If failure was certain, she could stop trying to prevent it.

Her Switch glowed faintly on her bedside table, powered down but still present. A reminder of worlds where effort mattered, where you could try again, where being yourself didn't result in abandonment.

But those worlds weren't real. And Emma was done pretending they could save her.

Part 5: The Spiral

Friday morning arrived grey and drizzling, perfectly matching Emma's internal weather. She'd slept in fragments, waking every hour from dreams where Rhys ignored her in corridors that stretched endlessly in every direction. Each time she'd jolted awake, heart racing, before remembering that the waking reality was somehow worse than the dreams.

Her alarm went off at half past six. Emma stared at the ceiling, trying to summon the energy to move. Her body felt impossibly heavy, waterlogged with exhaustion and despair. The thought of getting up, getting dressed, going to school, was beyond her capacity.

Her phone, when she finally forced herself to check it at quarter to seven, showed thirty-one notifications. Seventeen messages from Rhys, escalating from confused to worried. Six from Chloe. Three from her mother, sent last night, asking if she was all right because she'd been so quiet. Five from her dad, the most recent sent at 11:47 PM: I know something's wrong. You don't have to tell me what. But please let me know you're safe x

Emma's chest constricted further. Even her silence had become a problem, a thing that required explanation and apology. She couldn't do anything right. Couldn't even fall apart properly without inconveniencing everyone.

She scrolled through the previews without opening the messages, unable to bear reading them fully.

From Rhys:

Did I do something wrong?

Emma please talk to me

I'm getting really worried now

If you're upset about tomorrow I'm sorry, I should have explained better

My phone's been playing up, I don't know if my messages are sending

Please just let me know you're okay

I'm calling you

Three missed calls from Rhys. Two from Chloe.

From Chloe:

You're worrying me, text back x

Emma if you don't answer I'm coming round

Seriously, just let me know you're alive

Your mum says you're in your room but won't come out. What's going on?

From her dad:

Your mum called. She's worried about you.

I'm worried about you.

Whatever's happened, we can work through it

I know it feels impossible right now but I promise it's not

I love you. Please talk to someone x

Each message felt like evidence of her failure. Evidence that she'd overreacted, made too much of a simple cancellation, proven herself to be exactly as dramatic and high-maintenance as she'd feared.

Emma should respond. Should explain, apologise, reassure everyone she hadn't done anything drastic. But her fingers felt numb. The thought of crafting a response, of explaining herself, of maintaining the mask, was beyond her current capacity.

She dragged herself out of bed, moving on autopilot. Her reflection in the mirror looked grey, hollowed out. Dark circles under her eyes that makeup wouldn't hide. Hair lank and lifeless. The physical manifestation of how she felt inside.

She should shower. Should get dressed. Should go to school and hand in her half-finished coursework and pretend everything was fine.

The thought made her want to vomit.

Downstairs, she could hear her mother moving about the kitchen, the familiar sounds of morning routine. Radio 4 murmuring in the background. The kettle boiling. All the normal things that happened in normal households where normal people lived normal lives.

Emma wasn't normal. Had never been normal. Had just been very good at pretending.

She pulled on yesterday's uniform, not caring that it was creased. Splashed water on her face. Avoided looking in the mirror again.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Rhys.

Please Emma. I don't understand what's happening. Can we talk?

The desperation in his words should have moved her. Instead, it confirmed her worst fears. He was only messaging because he felt guilty, because he was a decent person who didn't want to be cruel. Not because he actually wanted to talk to her.

Emma switched her phone off entirely. Shoved it in her bag. She couldn't deal with it. Couldn't deal with any of it.

Downstairs, her mother looked up as Emma entered the kitchen, her expression shifting immediately from mild curiosity to alarm.

'Emma, love. Are you all right?' Her mother stood, moving towards her. 'You look awful.'

'I'm fine.' The automatic lie, worn smooth by repetition.

'You're not fine. You've been in your room since yesterday evening. You didn't come down for dinner. Your dad's been calling me all night worried sick.' Her mother's voice was gentle, which somehow made everything worse. 'What's happened?'

'Nothing. I'm just tired.'

'Is it about that boy? Rhys?'

Emma's throat closed. She couldn't talk about it. Couldn't articulate the crushing pain, the certainty of abandonment, without sounding completely unhinged.

'He cancelled our plans,' Emma managed. 'That's all.'

'Oh, sweetheart.' Her mother's expression softened into something like pity. 'I know that's disappointing, but these things happen. People get busy. It's not the end of the world.'

Not the end of the world. The casual dismissal of her pain, the reduction of her agony to a mere disappointment, landed like a physical blow.

'You don't understand,' Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Then help me understand. Talk to me.'

But how could she explain? How could she put into words the way a cancelled date felt like total rejection, like confirmation of every fear she'd ever had about herself? How could she describe the physical pain, the crushing weight in her chest, the way her hands had gone numb and her vision had tunnelled?

'It's not just that he cancelled,' Emma tried. 'It's that he barely explained. Just sent a text saying he was stuck revising. Like I wasn't worth a proper conversation. Like I didn't matter.'

'I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. Boys that age aren't great at communication. They don't always think about how things might come across.'

'But that's the problem! He didn't think about me at all. And I know I'm overreacting, I know this is too much emotion for a cancelled date, but I can't make it stop. It physically hurts, Mum. Like someone's crushing my chest.'

Her mother looked troubled, uncertain. 'That sounds like anxiety, love. Have you thought about speaking to someone? A counsellor maybe?'

'So I can be told I'm being dramatic? That I need to stop taking things so personally?' Emma felt anger building beneath the despair, hot and defensive. 'That's basically what you just said.'

'I didn't say you were being dramatic.' Her mother's voice had taken on that careful quality that Emma recognised: the tone people used when they thought you were being irrational. 'I'm just trying to help you see things in perspective. One cancelled date doesn't mean the relationship is over.'

'You don't get it. You don't get that my brain doesn't do perspective. It does catastrophe. It does total rejection or total acceptance with nothing in between.'

'Emma, you're clearly very sensitive. But you need to learn not to let every little thing affect you so much. Life is full of disappointments. You can't fall apart every time something doesn't go your way.'

The words landed like a slap. Every little thing. As though the pain Emma was experiencing was a choice, something she could simply decide not to feel.

'I need to go to school,' Emma said flatly, turning away before her mother could see the tears threatening again.

'Do you? You look like you should stay home. Rest. Get some perspective.'

'I have coursework due. I have to go.'

It was a lie. She had no intention of going to school. But she needed to escape this conversation, this well-meaning invalidation that made everything worse.

She grabbed her bag and left before her mother could argue further.

Outside, the drizzle had intensified to proper rain. Emma walked without direction, her school bag heavy on her shoulder, her uniform getting progressively more soaked. She should go to school. Should hand in what she had of the coursework, explain she'd been ill, beg for an extension.

But her feet carried her away from school, down familiar streets towards the park. Towards nowhere. Towards anywhere that wasn't a place where people expected things from her.

Her phone, switched off in her bag, felt like a weight. All those unanswered messages. All those people worrying. All that disappointment she was causing simply by existing.

By the time she reached the park, she was properly soaked, her hair plastered to her head, her uniform clinging uncomfortably. She found a bench under a tree that offered marginal shelter and sat, staring at nothing.

The coursework deadline was in six hours. She'd missed it. Failed. Proved her mother right about priorities and time management and the consequences of wasting time on childish hobbies.

Rhys would have given up by now, realising she was too much work. Or he'd be messaging Chloe, asking what was wrong with Emma, why she was being so difficult over a simple cancellation.

Everyone would be better off without me.

The thought returned, insistent. Emma examined it clinically, without the alarm she knew she should feel. Would anyone really miss her? Or would they just be relieved that they no longer had to manage her emotions, walk on eggshells around her sensitivity, deal with her constant need for reassurance?

Her dad would miss her. The thought came with certainty. Her dad, who treated her interests as legitimate, who never made her feel broken for caring too much about made-up worlds, who understood that sometimes escape was survival rather than avoidance.

The thought of her dad finding out she was gone, of causing him that pain, pulled Emma back slightly from the edge. Not far. Just enough.

She should call him. Should go to his flat instead of sitting here in the rain, spiralling into darkness.

But her phone was off. And she was so tired. So impossibly, overwhelmingly tired of fighting her own brain, of trying to be normal, of disappointing everyone simply by being herself.

She sat on the bench as the rain continued to fall, her coursework deadline passing unmarked, her phone buzzing to life when the water seeped into her bag and somehow triggered it back on.

Her stomach cramped with hunger, but she ignored it. She'd got quite good at ignoring hunger lately. It was easier than dealing with food, easier than the complicated emotions that came with eating. When had food become so fraught? She used to enjoy meals, used to game with snacks beside her, used to eat without thinking about it.

Now every meal felt like a performance. Every bite was monitored by some internal observer, tallying it up, measuring it against some impossible standard she couldn't quite define. Eat too much and you're greedy, undisciplined, taking up too much space. Eat too little and people notice, ask questions, express concern that feels like criticism.

The hunger pains were almost comforting in their simplicity. Physical pain she could understand, could control. Unlike the emotional agony that came and went without warning.

Seventeen new messages. Emma didn't look.

The world continued around her. People walked dogs, pushed prams, lived their normal lives whilst Emma fell apart on a park bench, wondering how much longer she could keep pretending any of this mattered.

 Part 6: The Breaking Point

Emma wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting in the rain when her phone started ringing. The sound was muffled by her bag, but persistent. It rang, stopped, rang again.

On the fifth attempt, she finally pulled it out. The screen was wet, difficult to read, but she could make out her dad's name.

She answered without speaking.

'Emma.' Her dad's voice was controlled but Emma could hear the worry beneath it. 'Where are you?'

'The park.'

'Which park? The one near your mum's or the one near school?'

'Near Mum's.'

'Stay there. I'm coming to get you. Twenty minutes.'

'You don't have to...'

'I'm already in the car. Emma, love, just stay where you are, all right? Don't go anywhere.'

The line went dead. Emma stared at her phone, watching rain drops slide down the screen. She should move, find better shelter, make herself presentable. But the energy required felt insurmountable.

She opened her messages. The preview of the most recent one from Rhys made her chest constrict: Your dad just called me. Emma please, whatever I did, I'm so sorry. Please be okay.

Her dad had called Rhys. Which meant people were properly worried now. Which meant she'd escalated this into a real crisis instead of just being quietly miserable. Another failure to add to the list.

True to his word, her dad's car pulled up at the edge of the park exactly nineteen minutes later. Emma watched him get out, spot her, and start walking over with measured steps, like he was approaching a frightened animal.

'Hey, Em.' He sat on the bench beside her, not touching, just present. 'You're soaked through.'

'It's raining.'

'It is indeed.' He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. 'Want to sit here a bit longer, or shall we go somewhere warm?'

The lack of judgment, the absence of lectures about coursework or school or worry she'd caused, made Emma's throat tighten.

'I missed my deadline,' she said quietly. 'Politics coursework. It was due at four.'

'We can sort that out. Extensions happen.'

'And I've been ignoring everyone. Rhys probably hates me. Mum thinks I'm being dramatic. I'm a mess, Dad.'

'You're having a hard time. That's different from being a mess.'

'No, I'm properly broken. My brain doesn't work right. I can't handle normal things like a normal person. Everyone else can have plans cancelled without falling apart but I just... I couldn't stop it. I knew I was overreacting but I couldn't make it stop.'

Her dad was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. 'Your mum mentioned you said it physically hurt. Like your chest was being crushed.'

'Yeah.'

'Emma, I need to tell you something. And I want you to listen without interrupting, all right?'

Emma nodded.

'I have ADHD. Was diagnosed about five years ago, when I was thirty-eight. Before that, I spent most of my life thinking I was lazy, unreliable, fundamentally flawed somehow.' He paused. 'Your mum and I split up partly because she couldn't understand why I struggled with things that seemed simple to her. Why I'd forget important dates, why I'd start projects and never finish them, why I needed routines that probably seemed ridiculous to her.'

Emma turned to look at him properly for the first time. 'You have ADHD?'

'I do. And one of the symptoms that nearly destroyed me before I got help was something called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. RSD for short.' He pulled out his phone, water-damaged but functional, and pulled up an article. 'Does any of this sound familiar?'

Emma read slowly, her vision blurring with more than rain. Each symptom was her. The extreme emotional sensitivity to perceived rejection. The physical pain. The catastrophic thinking. The instant conviction that mild criticism meant total condemnation. The anticipation of rejection that coloured every interaction.

One line jumped out at her: 'People with RSD describe the emotional pain as feeling like running into a lamppost - sudden, shocking, and physically debilitating.'

'That's exactly it,' Emma whispered. 'It's like... you're walking along and suddenly you've smashed face-first into something solid. And it hurts so much you can't breathe. And everyone else is just walking past like nothing happened because they can't see the lamppost. But it's real. It's so real.'

'I know,' her dad said quietly. 'God, Emma, I know.'

'This is me,' she said, her voice barely audible. 'This is exactly me. All the time.'

'I thought it might be. When your mum described how you've been, it sounded very familiar.' He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. 'Emma, love, you're not broken. Your brain just works differently. And I'm so sorry you've been dealing with this alone.'

The relief of being understood, of having her pain validated as real rather than dramatic, broke something loose in Emma's chest. She sobbed against her dad's shoulder, great heaving cries that shook her whole body.

'It hurts so much,' she managed between sobs. 'And I know it's not rational but it feels so real. It feels like I'm dying when people reject me.'

'I know. God, Emma, I know. It's one of the worst things about ADHD that nobody talks about. The emotional pain is real. Physical. It's not you being too sensitive or overdramatic. It's your nervous system processing rejection as a threat to survival.'

'Rhys cancelled our date and I immediately thought he was leaving me. That he'd realised I was too much and he was done. And I couldn't text him back because I was so sure that anything I said would just confirm I was this needy, broken person he'd be better off without.'

'Has he given you any actual evidence he feels that way?'

Emma thought about it honestly. 'No. He's been really patient. Really kind. He even started playing games I like because he wanted to share my interests. But my brain just insists he's going to leave eventually, so every little thing becomes proof.'

'That's the RSD. It's catastrophising, searching for evidence of rejection even when none exists. It's exhausting, isn't it? Being at war with your own brain all the time.'

'I'm so tired, Dad.'

'I know you are. Come on, let's get you home, get you dry and warm, and then we can talk about next steps. Getting you properly assessed, talking to school, working out strategies.'

'Mum's going to be furious. I missed school. Failed my coursework deadline.'

'Your mum loves you. She just doesn't understand yet. We'll help her understand.' He stood, offering his hand. 'And the coursework isn't failed until you don't turn it in at all. We'll email your teacher, explain you've been unwell, get an extension.'

'What if they say no?'

'Then we'll deal with that. But we're not catastrophising about it in advance, all right? One step at a time.'

Emma let him pull her to her feet. Her legs felt shaky, her whole body exhausted from the emotional storm. But something had shifted. The crushing weight in her chest had eased, not disappeared, but become bearable.

'Dad?' Emma said as they walked towards his car. 'Why didn't you tell me before? About having ADHD?'

'I wasn't sure if you had it too. Didn't want to project my stuff onto you. And I wasn't sure how your mum would react to me suggesting it, given our history.' He opened the car door for her. 'But watching you struggle with the same things I struggled with, seeing you blame yourself the way I blamed myself for years... I should have said something sooner. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. I'm just glad you told me now.'

In the car, her dad turned the heating up full blast. Emma's teeth were chattering, her uniform thoroughly soaked. She probably looked absolutely wretched.

'We need to ring Rhys,' her dad said gently. 'Let him know you're safe. He's been beside himself.'

'I don't know what to say to him.'

'How about the truth? That you had a really bad day, that your brain convinced you he was rejecting you, and that you're sorry for worrying him.'

'What if he thinks I'm completely unhinged?'

'Then he's not the right person. But I don't think he will. He sounded pretty determined to understand when I spoke to him.'

Emma pulled out her phone, staring at the seventeen unread messages from Rhys. The most recent one, sent ten minutes ago: Your dad says he's got you. I'm so relieved. Please let me know when you're ready to talk. No pressure. Just want to know you're okay x x x

Three kisses. More than yesterday. The observation was absurd, but her brain catalogued it anyway.

She typed: I'm okay. I'm sorry. Can we talk tomorrow? I promise I'll explain everything x x x

The response came within seconds.

Yes. Tomorrow. Whenever you're ready. I'm just glad you're safe. x x x

Emma leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. She wasn't fixed. The RSD hadn't disappeared. But for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn't feel completely alone with it.

'Dad?' she said quietly. 'Does it get better? The RSD?'

'It gets manageable. You learn strategies. Medication helps some people. Understanding what it is helps a lot, because you can start to recognise when your brain is lying to you.' He glanced at her. 'It's not easy. But it's better than suffering through it without knowing why.'

'I thought I was just broken.'

'You're not broken, Em. You're different. And different doesn't mean broken.'

Her phone buzzed with a message from Chloe: Your dad rang. I'm so glad you're okay. Here when you're ready to talk x

And one from her mum: Your dad is bringing you to his flat. Call me when you can. I love you x

Emma stared at that last message. Her mother didn't say 'I love you' often. Usually it was reserved for major occasions or moments of high emotion. Seeing it now, in response to what Emma had put everyone through, made her throat tighten again.

She'd caused all this worry. All this disruption. And yet people were still there, still saying they loved her, still wanting to help.

Maybe she wasn't as much of a burden as her brain insisted.

Maybe, just maybe, she was worth the effort after all.

Part 7: The Aftermath

Emma spent Friday evening at her dad's flat, wrapped in borrowed tracksuit bottoms and an oversized jumper that smelled comfortingly of washing powder and safety. Her dad had made beans on toast, the ultimate comfort food, and they'd eaten mostly in silence whilst Emma's body slowly stopped shaking from cold and adrenaline.

Emma had managed about half the plate before her throat closed up. Even comfort food felt difficult when her nervous system was this activated. Her dad noticed but didn't comment, just quietly cleared the plates.

'When did you last eat properly?' he asked gently. 'And I mean actually eat, not just pick at things.'

Emma tried to remember. 'I don't know. A few days ago?'

'Emma.'

'I'm not doing it on purpose. I just... forget. Or I'm too anxious. Or eating feels like too much effort.' She paused. 'And sometimes I think that if I were smaller, lighter, less physically present, maybe I'd be less overwhelming to people. Maybe I'd be easier to deal with.'

Her dad looked stricken. 'Oh, love. That's not how it works. You're not too much. You don't need to take up less space.'

'My brain doesn't believe that.'

'I know. But we need to keep your body functioning whilst we work on your brain. Can we make a deal? Three meals a day, even if they're small. Even if you don't feel hungry. Your brain needs fuel to fight itself.'

Afterwards, he'd shown her his own diagnosis paperwork, his prescription for ADHD medication, the notes he'd taken over the years about managing his symptoms. It was strange, seeing her dad's life laid out like that. All the things she'd thought were just 'Dad being Dad' reframed as ADHD symptoms.

'I was rubbish at school,' he'd told her. 'Couldn't focus on anything that didn't interest me. Teachers said I had potential but was lazy. Sound familiar?'

It did. It really did.

'The RSD was the worst part though,' he'd continued. 'Cost me jobs, friendships, my marriage. Because I couldn't handle criticism without interpreting it as total rejection. I'd quit jobs before they could fire me. Push people away before they could leave. Self-sabotage every relationship because I was so sure they'd end anyway.'

'Do you still do that?'

'Sometimes. The medication helps. Understanding helps more. When I can recognise that I'm catastrophising, I can challenge it. Not always. But more than I could before.'

They'd talked for hours, Emma curled up on his sofa whilst rain continued to patter against the windows. Her dad had explained about getting assessed, about the long NHS waiting lists, about private options if they could stretch to it. About medication trials and therapy and the fact that there was no magic fix, just tools and strategies and the long work of rewiring thought patterns.

'What if I can't afford to go private?' Emma had asked. 'What if I have to wait months?'

'Then we'll manage in the meantime. We'll work on strategies now. I'll teach you what's helped me. We'll talk to your school about support. We'll get through it.'

The 'we' had made Emma's chest tighten in a good way. Not alone. She wasn't alone in this.

Around nine, her mother had arrived. Emma had tensed immediately, preparing for lectures about responsibility and missed school and coursework deadlines.

But her mum had just pulled her into a hug, holding on tight.

'I was so worried,' she'd said into Emma's hair. 'When your dad couldn't find you, when you weren't answering your phone... Emma, I was terrified.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. Just talk to me next time. Please.' Her mum had pulled back, looking at Emma properly. 'Your dad explained about ADHD. About the RSD thing. I had no idea that was even a thing that existed.'

'It's real,' Emma had said quietly. 'It's not me being dramatic. It physically hurts.'

'I believe you. And I'm sorry I made you feel like you were overreacting. I didn't understand.' Her mum had glanced at Emma's dad. 'We've been talking. We think you should get assessed as soon as possible. We'll pay for private if we need to. This is important.'

The united front between her divorced parents, the lack of blame or recrimination, had been almost overwhelming.

'I still need to do my coursework,' Emma had said. 'I missed the deadline.'

'Your dad's already emailed your teacher. Explained you've been unwell. They've granted a week's extension.'

'Just like that?'

'Well, your dad can be quite persuasive when he needs to be.' Her mum had smiled slightly. 'And you've got a track record of good work. One crisis doesn't erase that.'

'Yeah. I'll try.' Emma hesitated. 'Mum, there's something else I need to tell you. About food.'

Her mother's expression shifted to concern. 'Go on.'

'I've been struggling with eating. Not like a proper eating disorder, but... when I'm anxious, I can't eat. And when I'm really stressed, I forget to eat entirely. And sometimes I think that if I were smaller, I'd be less of a problem. Less trouble.' The words came out in a rush. 'I know that's not rational. But it's there.'

'How long has this been going on?'

'Few months, maybe? It got worse when the RSD got bad.'

Her mother was quiet for a moment. 'Your dad mentioned you barely ate when you were at his place. I thought it was just the crisis. But it's more than that?'

'Yeah. Food's become complicated. Like everything else.'

'We need to address this. Along with everything else.' Her mother squeezed her hand. 'Your body needs fuel, Emma. Especially when your brain is working overtime. Can we work on this together?'

'I'd like that.'

Emma had gone home with her mum that night, climbing into her own bed around eleven. Her phone had buzzed constantly with messages, but she'd ignored them all except one final text to Rhys: Can you come over tomorrow afternoon? I need to explain properly x

His response had been immediate: Yes. What time? x

Two? x

I'll be there x

Now it was Saturday afternoon and Emma was sitting in her room, which she'd made a half-hearted attempt to tidy, waiting for Rhys to arrive. Her stomach churned with anxiety. She'd rehearsed what to say about twenty times, but the words still felt inadequate.

At precisely two o'clock, her mum called up the stairs. 'Emma? Rhys is here.'

Emma's heart hammered. She took a breath, then another, then went downstairs.

Rhys was standing in the hallway, looking anxious and uncertain. When he saw her, relief flooded his face.

'Hi,' he said.

'Hi.' Emma's voice came out smaller than she'd intended. 'Want to come up?'

In her room, they sat on her bed, an awkward space between them. Emma could feel Rhys wanting to reach for her but holding back, uncertain of his welcome.

'I'm sorry,' Emma started. 'For ignoring you. For making you worry. For being completely unhinged about you cancelling our date.'

'You weren't unhinged.'

'I kind of was though. You sent one text about needing to revise and I immediately convinced myself you were breaking up with me and spiralled into this complete crisis and made everyone worry and I know that's not normal.' The words tumbled out in a rush.

Rhys was quiet for a moment. 'Your dad mentioned something called RSD?'

'Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. It's this thing that happens with ADHD where your brain processes rejection as like, a physical threat. So when you cancelled, my brain didn't go "oh, he's busy with exams." It went "he's realised you're too much and he's leaving you and this is the beginning of the end."'

'But I didn't say any of that.'

'I know. That's the thing. My brain fills in gaps with worst-case scenarios. It catastrophises everything. And the emotional pain that comes with it is physical. Like, actually physical. My chest felt like it was being crushed.'

'That sounds horrible.'

'It is.' Emma searched for the right words. 'Someone online described it as like running into a lamppost. You're just walking along, thinking everything's fine, and then BAM - you've smashed face-first into something solid and you're on the ground and you can't breathe and you don't understand what just happened. Except the lamppost is invisible to everyone else. They just see you on the ground for no reason and think you're overreacting.'

Rhys winced. 'That's horrible. So my text was the lamppost?'

'Yeah. And I know you didn't mean it to be. That's what makes it so confusing. You were just sending a normal text but my brain turned it into a concrete barrier.' Emma felt tears threatening again. 'And I know it's not your fault and I know I should have just asked you if we were okay instead of assuming the worst, but I couldn't. Because I was so certain that asking would just make you confirm that yes, actually, I was too much work and you were done.'

'Emma.' Rhys took her hand carefully. 'I'm not done. I'm not going anywhere. I was just genuinely swamped with revision and sent a terrible text without thinking about how it would sound.'

'I know that now. But in the moment, all I could feel was this crushing certainty that you hated me.'

'I don't hate you. I really, really don't hate you.' He squeezed her hand. 'But I need to know what you need from me. Because I can't read your mind, and I don't want to accidentally hurt you again.'

Emma took a breath. 'I need you to be clear when you communicate. Like, if you need to cancel, explain why properly. Give me context so I'm not left wondering. And maybe respond to texts relatively quickly? Not immediately, but within a few hours? Because the waiting makes my brain fill in the gaps with terrible things.'

'I can do that. Though you have to promise to check with me before assuming I'm rejecting you. Because I'm rubbish at expressing things sometimes, but that doesn't mean I don't care.'

'Deal.' Emma felt something loosen in her chest. 'I'm getting assessed for ADHD. Going to see about medication and therapy and all that. So hopefully I'll get better at managing it.'

'You don't have to "manage" yourself for me. I just want to understand what's happening in your head so I can help.'

'You're being really understanding about this.'

'Why wouldn't I be? Emma, you have a neurological thing that makes rejection painful. That's not a character flaw. It's just how your brain works.' He smiled slightly. 'Though you have to admit, ghosting me for twenty-four hours was pretty dramatic.'

Despite everything, Emma laughed. 'It really was. I'm sorry.'

'Stop apologising. Just don't do it again. When you went silent, I didn't know if you were hurt or angry or if something terrible had happened. That was the worst part, not knowing.'

'I couldn't face you. I was so sure you were going to confirm all my worst fears.' Emma hesitated. 'And... there's something else. The other day, when we were... when I froze up. Were you upset with me?'

Rhys looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. 'When we were kissing? No, Emma, God no. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.'

'But I saw your face. You looked... disappointed.'

'I was worried I'd pushed you too far. That I'd made you uncomfortable.' He took her hand. 'I wasn't disappointed in you. I was annoyed with myself for not checking in sooner.'

'Really?'

'Really. Emma, we don't have to do anything you're not ready for. Ever. I'm not with you for... I mean, I like you. All of you. Not just...' He trailed off, his face reddening.

Despite everything, Emma almost smiled. 'You're very bad at this conversation.'

'I really am. What I'm trying to say is: I like kissing you. I'd like to do more than kissing eventually, if you want to. But I'm not in a rush, and I'm definitely not going anywhere just because you needed to slow down.'

'My brain told me you were going to break up with me because I'm too complicated.'

'Your brain is a liar.' He pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head. 'You're not too complicated. You're just you.'

'That must be horrible. Being trapped in your own head like that, with your brain telling you everyone's about to leave.' Rhys pulled her closer. 'For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere. Even when your brain is being mean to you.'

'What if it's always like this? What if I'm always like this?'

'Then we'll work with it. Emma, everyone has stuff. Mine's probably that I'm terrible at expressing emotions and I tend to shut down when things get difficult. We're both learning. We're both figuring it out.'

'You really don't mind? The RSD, the constant reassurance, all of it?'

'Honestly? It's really not that big a deal. You need clear communication and quick responses. That's pretty manageable.' He kissed the top of her head. 'You're worth it. Even when your brain is being mean to you. Especially then, actually, because that's when you need someone to prove it wrong.'

'I really like you,' Emma said quietly. 'Even when my brain is trying to convince me you're about to leave.'

'I really like you too. All of you. Including the parts you think are too much.'

They sat like that for a while, Emma leaning against Rhys, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. The RSD hadn't disappeared. She could still feel it humming beneath her skin, whispering doubts. But it was quieter now. Manageable.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Chloe: Can I come over? Brought chocolate and want to hear you're actually okay x

Emma showed Rhys the message. 'Do you mind if Chloe comes over?'

'Course not. I should probably go anyway, let you catch up with her.'

'You don't have to leave.'

'I know. But I think you probably need some friend time.' He stood, pulling her up with him. 'How about I come back tomorrow? We could actually do something fun for once, instead of crisis management.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Gaming? You could show me that Baldur's Gate game you're always talking about. I'm genuinely curious about it.'

The thought of Rhys in her world, seeing her at her most enthusiastic and unselfconscious, still felt terrifying. But also, maybe, possible.

'Yeah,' Emma said. 'I'd like that.'

After Rhys left, Chloe arrived with a carrier bag full of chocolate and an expression of determined concern.

'Right,' she said, depositing the chocolate on Emma's bed and sitting down. 'Talk to me. What the hell happened?'

Emma explained. About the RSD, about her dad having ADHD, about the way her brain catastrophised every interaction. About feeling like she was constantly at war with her own thoughts.

Chloe listened without interrupting, her expression shifting from concern to understanding to something that looked almost like recognition.

'Emma,' she said when Emma had finished. 'I need to tell you something. My mum has ADHD. Got diagnosed two years ago.'

'What?'

'Yeah. She struggled for years before she got help. And the RSD thing... God, it nearly destroyed my parents' marriage. Mum would interpret every little comment from Dad as criticism, every sigh as disappointment. She'd pull away or lash out. It was really hard.'

'But they're okay now?'

'They are. Once Mum got diagnosed and Dad understood it was neurological and not her being deliberately difficult, things got better. Not perfect, but better.' Chloe pulled out her phone. 'I actually asked Mum about it last night, after your dad called. She sent me this.'

She showed Emma a screenshot of a text conversation.

The key is communication, Chloe's mum had written. Your person needs to understand that the pain is real, even if the rejection isn't. And you need to learn to challenge the catastrophic thoughts, even when they feel absolutely true. It's hard work, but it's possible. Tell your friend she's not alone. Tell her it gets better.

Emma felt tears prickling. 'Your mum said that?'

'She did. And she said if you ever want to talk to someone who gets it, she's happy to. Like, properly gets it, not just sympathetic-but-doesn't-really-understand gets it.'

'I'd like that. I feel like I'm drowning in information but I don't know anyone who actually lives with this.'

'Well, now you do. Mum, me by proxy, your dad.' Chloe grinned. 'You've got a whole support network. Whether you want it or not.'

'I want it,' Emma said. 'God, I really want it. I'm so tired of pretending I'm fine when I'm not.'

'Then stop pretending. At least with me. I'd rather know you're struggling than have you hide it and then disappear for twenty-four hours because you're having a crisis.' Chloe's voice was gentle but firm. 'Deal?'

'Deal.'

They spent the rest of the afternoon eating chocolate and talking. About ADHD, about RSD, about the ways Emma's brain worked differently. About strategies and medication and the long road ahead.

But also about normal things. About Chloe's disastrous attempt at learning to drive. About the stupid drama happening in their year group. About whether they should do a joint fresher's trip or separate ones.

Normal friendship things. The kind of conversation Emma had been too anxious to have properly for months, always monitoring herself, always worried she was too much or not enough.

But now, knowing Chloe understood, knowing she didn't have to hide, Emma let herself just be. Messy, intense, sometimes too much, sometimes overwhelmed, but herself.

And Chloe didn't leave. Didn't even seem fazed.

Maybe, Emma thought, this was what it felt like to be accepted. Not despite the broken parts, but including them.

It wasn't a cure. But it was a start.

Part 8: The Reckoning

Sunday afternoon, Emma sat at her dad's dining table with her laptop open, attempting to resurrect her Politics coursework. The deadline extension gave her until Friday, which should have been plenty of time, but her brain still felt like it was operating through fog.

Her dad was in the kitchen, preparing for their campaign session later. Emma could hear him humming tunelessly whilst he organised his DM notes. The familiar sounds were comforting.

She'd managed about three hundred words when her dad appeared with two mugs of tea.

'How's it going?'

'Slowly. My brain doesn't want to engage with political theory right now.'

'Fair enough. Want to take a break? We could do some character development for the new arc.'

The temptation was strong. Emma's character, a half-elf ranger named Sera who was recovering from a betrayal by her former adventuring party, needed some serious backstory work before the next session. And thinking about fictional problems was infinitely easier than thinking about real ones.

'I should probably keep working,' Emma said reluctantly.

'Emma, you've been staring at that screen for an hour. Your brain needs a break.' He sat down across from her. 'Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something.'

'That sounds ominous.'

'Not ominous. Just important.' He wrapped his hands around his mug. 'I've been thinking about how we can support you whilst you're waiting for assessment. And I wondered if it might help to have some structure around your gaming time.'

Emma tensed immediately. 'If you're going to tell me I need to quit gaming, Mum's already tried that approach.'

'No, the opposite actually. I think gaming is important for you. It's where your brain gets to rest, where you feel competent and capable. Taking that away would be cruel.'

'Then what do you mean by structure?'

'I mean making it intentional rather than something you do out of guilt or avoidance. Like, what if you had designated gaming time that was protected? Say, two hours every evening where you're allowed to properly engage without feeling like you should be doing something else?'

Emma considered this. 'That would probably help with the guilt, yeah.'

'And we could use gaming as a reward system too. When you've done X amount of coursework, you get Y gaming time. Not as punishment for not working, but as incentive. Your brain responds well to rewards.'

'Is that what you do?'

'It is. I give myself an hour of reading or working on my miniatures after I've done work stuff. Knowing the reward is coming makes the work feel more bearable.'

It made sense. Emma's brain did respond to rewards far better than threats or guilt. And having permission to game, actual structured permission, might stop the constant cycle of playing whilst feeling guilty, which drained all the enjoyment out of it anyway.

'I think that could work,' she said slowly. 'Though I don't trust myself to actually stop after two hours. I lose track of time so easily.'

'Alarms. Set them. Multiple ones. And maybe keep your phone out of arm's reach when you're gaming, so you're not scrolling Reddit between quests and losing even more time.'

'Speaking from experience?'

Her dad grinned. 'Absolutely. I once spent six hours on a "quick" Civilisation session because I didn't set any boundaries. Time blindness is real.'

They worked out a schedule together. Two hours of protected gaming time each evening. Homework and revision in chunks, with regular breaks. An alarm system that Emma actually had to get up and walk to another room to turn off, forcing her to break hyperfocus.

'What about when I'm at Mum's?' Emma asked. 'She's not going to go for this.'

'Let me talk to her. I think if we present it as therapeutic rather than indulgent, she'll understand.'

'She thinks gaming is just wasting time.'

'She's wrong about that. But I understand where she's coming from. She sees you struggling and she thinks eliminating distractions will help. She doesn't understand that your brain needs those breaks to function.' He sipped his tea. 'We'll help her understand.'

Emma felt something loosen in her chest. Having her dad advocate for her, frame her needs in ways her mum might actually hear, felt like a weight lifting.

'Thanks, Dad.'

'Always. Now, about Sera's backstory. I was thinking for the new arc, we could explore her difficulty trusting new party members. Might be relevant to some things you're processing.'

Emma smiled. 'Are you therapy-ing me through D&D?'

'I prefer to think of it as collaborative storytelling with emotional resonance.' He pulled out his DM notes. 'But yes, absolutely. Gaming is where you feel safe exploring difficult emotions. Why not use that?'

They spent the next hour developing Sera's arc, talking about trust and rejection and the slow process of learning to be vulnerable again. Emma found herself getting properly excited for the first time in days, making notes, drawing connections between Sera's fictional trauma and her own very real struggles.

'What if she has this moment,' Emma said, sketching out an idea, 'where she thinks the new party is going to betray her like the old one did. So she sabotages the mission to leave before they can leave her. But then they don't leave. They stay and work through it with her.'

'I love that,' her dad said. 'Very thematically relevant. We can work that into the next session.'

'Is this too meta? Am I just playing out my own issues?'

'Emma, all good characters are partly playing out our own issues. That's what makes them compelling.'

'One more thing,' her dad said. 'What's your relationship with social media like?'

Emma grimaced. 'Toxic, honestly. I can't stop checking it but it makes everything worse.'

'How so?'

'I compare myself to everyone. I analyse every like and follow and Story view for evidence that people don't like me. I see photos of things I wasn't invited to and spiral thinking everyone hates me.' She paused. 'And I check Rhys's stuff obsessively. Who he follows, who likes his posts, who watches his Stories. It's exhausting.'

'That sounds like it's feeding the RSD rather than helping.'

'It definitely is. But I can't stop. What if I miss something important? What if people think I'm weird for not being online?'

'What if you took breaks from it? Set specific times to check, rather than constant scrolling?'

'I've tried that. I always break my own rules.'

'What about turning off notifications? So you're not getting pinged constantly with things to analyse?'

'That might help.' Emma considered it. 'Though then I'd worry about missing messages.'

'You can keep message notifications but turn off likes and follows and all that. The stuff that feeds comparison.'

'Mum would love that. She's always saying I'm on my phone too much.'

'This isn't about being on your phone less. It's about protecting yourself from things that trigger your RSD.' Her dad leaned forward. 'Social media is designed to be addictive. And for someone with ADHD and RSD, it's particularly dangerous. All that comparison, all that ambiguous information to analyse, all those metrics of popularity and acceptance.'

'So I should just delete it all?'

'I'm not saying that. But maybe be more intentional about it. Follow people who make you feel good, not people who make you feel inadequate. Unfollow accounts that trigger comparison. Mute people's Stories if seeing them causes you pain.'

'That feels mean though. What if they notice?'

'Your mental health is more important than whether someone notices you muted their Stories.' Her dad smiled slightly. 'And Emma? They probably won't notice. Everyone's too worried about their own stuff.'

Later, when the rest of the gaming group arrived, Emma felt something like peace settle over her. These were her dad's friends, but they'd adopted her into their campaigns years ago. They knew her, accepted her, never made her feel like her enthusiasm was too much.

She played Sera with new understanding that afternoon, letting her character's fear of rejection drive decisions, but also letting her slowly, tentatively, reach out for connection. The party met her halfway, their characters responding with patience and understanding.

Art imitating life imitating art.

After the session, as they were packing up, one of the players, a woman called Jen, pulled Emma aside.

'Your dad mentioned you're getting assessed for ADHD.'

Emma tensed. 'Yeah.'

'That's really good. I was diagnosed three years ago. Changed my life.' Jen smiled. 'If you ever want to talk about it, I'm around. The diagnosis process can be intense.'

'Everyone's being really open about having it,' Emma said. 'I thought it was supposed to be this rare thing.'

'Not rare. Just underdiagnosed, especially in women. We're good at masking.' Jen laughed. 'Though it's exhausting, isn't it? Pretending to be normal all the time.'

'God, yes.'

'It gets easier once you know. Not easy, but easier. You can stop pretending and start adapting instead.'

On the drive home, Emma felt lighter than she had in weeks. Her coursework was still hanging over her, and she still had to face school tomorrow, and the RSD hadn't magically disappeared. But she had people. People who understood, who'd been through it, who could help guide her through.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Rhys: How was gaming? x

She sent back: Really good actually. Played out some therapy through my character. Very meta x

That's the best kind of gaming. Still on for tomorrow after school? x

Definitely. Fair warning, I'm going to make you play through the tutorial for at least an hour before anything exciting happens x

Worth it if you're there to explain everything x x

Emma smiled at her phone. The multiple kisses. The genuine interest in her hobbies. The patience with her brain's peculiarities.

Maybe this could actually work.

Maybe she didn't have to be perfect to be loved.

Maybe being herself, RSD and ADHD and gaming obsessions and all, was enough.

 Part 9: The Long Road

Monday arrived with the particular dread of returning to school after a public crisis. Emma had prepared herself for whispers, for people asking where she'd been Friday, for the humiliation of everyone knowing she'd fallen apart over a cancelled date.

But when she arrived at school, Chloe was waiting at the gate with a determined expression.

'Right. Here's what's happening. If anyone asks, you had a migraine Friday. That's it. No drama, no details, just a migraine.'

'People are going to know that's not true.'

'Let them think what they want. You don't owe anyone an explanation.' Chloe linked arms with her. 'And if anyone's being a dick about it, you tell me and I'll sort them out.'

'You're very protective today.'

'Yeah, well. You're my best mate and you've had a shit week. Someone's got to have your back.'

In the event, most people didn't seem to notice Emma had been gone. The self-absorption of teenagers meant they were too wrapped up in their own dramas to care much about hers.

Emma's form tutor pulled her aside before registration.

'Your dad explained about Friday. Are you feeling better?'

'Yes, thanks.'

'Good. I've emailed your teachers about the extension on your coursework. And I wanted you to know that if you need any accommodations whilst you're waiting for assessment, we can arrange that.'

'Like what?'

'Extra time in exams if you struggle with time management. Permission to take breaks if you're feeling overwhelmed. Access to a quiet room for working.' Mrs Patterson smiled kindly. 'We want to support you, Emma. You just need to ask.'

The idea that she could ask for help, that support was available rather than something to be ashamed of needing, was almost overwhelming.

'Thank you,' Emma managed.

At morning break, Rhys found her in their usual spot. He didn't make a big deal of Friday, didn't ask probing questions, just sat beside her and showed her a meme about Baldur's Gate that made her actually laugh.

'Still good for after school?' he asked.

'Yeah. Fair warning, I'm going to be insufferably enthusiastic about character creation.'

'I'm counting on it.'

The day passed in a blur of lessons Emma half-absorbed and constant anxiety about her coursework. She spent her free period in the library, actually making progress for the first time in days. The words came easier when she wasn't simultaneously fighting her own brain's insistence that she was going to fail anyway.

After school, Rhys came over. Emma had set up her laptop with Baldur's Gate already loaded, her detailed notes about character builds spread across her desk.

'Wow,' Rhys said, taking in the organised chaos. 'You really are into this.'

'Is it too much? I can tone it down.'

'No, I like it. You get this look when you talk about games. Like you're lit up from the inside.' He sat beside her. 'Show me everything.'

Emma did. She walked him through character creation, explaining the different classes and races, the implications of various ability scores, the narrative opportunities each choice presented. She talked about the story, the companions, the moral complexity of the choices you could make.

Rhys listened, asked questions, and genuinely seemed interested rather than just humouring her.

'I think I want to play a paladin,' he said finally. 'Lawful good, proper hero type. Complete opposite of my real personality.'

'You're not secretly evil, are you?'

'More chaotic neutral, probably. I break rules I think are stupid.' He grinned. 'But in games, I like playing characters who are better than me. Aspirational, you know?'

They played for two hours, Emma coaching Rhys through the tutorial section, genuinely delighted when he started getting into the story. When her alarm went off, marking the end of her designated gaming time, she actually turned it off instead of snoozing it.

'That's my limit for today,' she said. 'Got to do coursework.'

'You set a timer for yourself?'

'Yeah. My dad suggested it. I lose track of time too easily otherwise.'

'That's smart.' Rhys saved the game. 'This is really good though. I can see why you love it.'

'Just wait until you meet some of the companions. That's when it gets really good.'

After Rhys left, Emma actually worked on her coursework. With the promise of more gaming tomorrow, with the structure her dad had helped her create, the work felt less insurmountable.

She was three thousand words in by midnight. Not finished, but definitely survivable.

Part 10: The Assessment

Three weeks later, Emma sat in a private clinic in central London, waiting for her ADHD assessment. Her parents had scraped together the money for private because the NHS waiting list was nearly a year long. Emma felt guilty about the cost, but her dad had been firm: this was important. This was an investment in her future.

The assessment was exhaustive. Three hours of questions about her childhood, her struggles, her symptoms. Tests of attention and executive function. Questionnaires filled out by her parents, her teachers, herself.

Dr Patel, the psychiatrist conducting the assessment, was thorough but kind.

‘You’ve clearly developed excellent compensatory strategies,’ she said, reviewing Emma’s notes. ‘The masking is extensive. Most people wouldn’t see the difficulties underneath.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Not bad. Just exhausting, I imagine. You’ve worked very hard to appear neurotypical.’

‘I didn’t want people to think I was lazy or stupid.’

‘That’s common, especially in girls with ADHD. You learn early that your natural way of functioning isn’t acceptable, so you build these elaborate systems to hide it.’ Dr Patel looked at Emma directly. ‘But those systems take enormous energy to maintain, don’t they?’

‘Yeah.’ Emma felt tears threatening. ‘I’m so tired all the time.’

‘I imagine you are. The good news is, once we confirm the diagnosis and start treatment, that should ease. You won’t have to work so hard just to function.’

‘There’s one more thing,’ Emma said hesitantly. ‘I don’t think I have an eating disorder exactly, but food’s become really difficult. I skip meals when I’m anxious. Sometimes I forget to eat for a whole day. And sometimes I eat loads late at night when I’m overwhelmed. It’s like I’ve lost any normal relationship with hunger.’

Dr Patel nodded, making notes. ‘That’s actually quite common with RSD and ADHD. The emotional dysregulation affects appetite, and food can become a way of trying to manage overwhelming feelings. Some people restrict for control, others binge for comfort. It’s part of the same struggle.’

‘Is it going to get better?’

‘With treatment, yes. The medication may help regulate your appetite, and therapy can address the emotional component. But you’ll need to be intentional about eating regularly, even when you don’t feel like it. Your brain needs consistent fuel to function properly.’

‘There’s something else,’ Emma said, her face heating. ‘About my body and... physical intimacy. I’m with someone, and when we’re... intimate... my brain tells me I’m not good enough. That my body isn’t right. That he’s just being polite. It makes it really hard to be present.’

Dr Patel nodded. ‘That’s the RSD intersecting with body image issues. Your brain is catastrophising rejection even in moments of physical closeness and acceptance. Does your partner know you struggle with this?’

‘Yeah. He’s really patient about it.’

‘Good. That helps. But it would also help to work on this with your therapist. Learning to stay present during intimate moments, to challenge the critical thoughts as they arise rather than letting them spiral.’ Dr Patel made a note. ‘The medication may help with that too. When the emotional dysregulation eases, it’s easier to stay grounded in the present rather than catastrophising about the future.’

‘There’s one more thing,’ Emma said. ‘Social media. It makes my RSD so much worse but I can’t stop checking it.’

‘Tell me more about that.’

‘I’m constantly comparing myself to other people. Analysing every like, every follow, every comment for evidence that I’m not good enough. I see photos from things I wasn’t invited to and spiral thinking everyone hates me. I stalk my boyfriend’s profile looking for evidence he’s cheating or losing interest.’ Emma felt her face burn with shame. ‘I know it’s unhealthy. But I can’t stop.’

Dr Patel nodded, making notes. ‘Social media is particularly difficult for people with RSD. It’s essentially a constant stream of potential rejection triggers. Ambiguous information to analyse. Metrics that quantify your social worth. Curated images that make everyone else’s life look perfect whilst yours feels chaotic.’

‘Is that part of the ADHD too?’

‘The compulsive checking is related to ADHD – difficulty resisting impulses, seeking dopamine hits from notifications. But the RSD amplifies the emotional impact of what you see. So yes, it’s both.’

‘What can I do about it?’

‘Several things. First, awareness – which you already have. You know it’s feeding your symptoms. Second, boundaries. Specific times to check rather than constant scrolling. Turn off notifications that aren’t essential. Unfollow or mute accounts that consistently trigger comparison or anxiety. Third, challenge the narratives. When you see something that triggers RSD, ask yourself what evidence you actually have versus what your brain is assuming.’

‘That all sounds really hard.’

‘It is hard. Social media companies have literally engineered these platforms to be addictive. For someone with ADHD and RSD, you’re fighting against both your neurotype and deliberate psychological manipulation.’ Dr Patel looked at Emma directly. ‘But it’s worth it. Because right now, social media is actively harming your mental health.’

The formal diagnosis came a week later. ADHD, combined presentation. Moderate to severe. Recommendations for medication and ongoing therapy.

Emma cried when she read it. Not from sadness, but from relief.

She had a name for it. An explanation. She wasn’t just broken or lazy or fundamentally flawed.

She was neurodivergent. Her brain worked differently. And that was okay.

The medication journey was trial and error. The first prescription made her feel numb, emotionally blunted in a way that was almost worse than the chaos. The second gave her headaches and killed her appetite completely.

The third, finally, helped.

Not dramatically. Not a cure. But enough that the constant noise in her head quieted slightly. Enough that focusing became marginally easier. Enough that the RSD, whilst still present, lost some of its sharp edges.

‘It’s not supposed to make you feel different,’ Dr Patel had explained when Emma expressed disappointment that she still felt like herself. ‘It’s supposed to make executive function easier. You’re still you, just with more capacity.’

And she was right. Emma still lost track of time sometimes, still struggled with task initiation, still needed structure and reminders. But it was manageable now. Survivable.

With Rhys, they’d developed a rhythm. A set of agreed-upon communication strategies that worked for both of them.

Morning texts. Quick check-ins during the day. Immediate explanations if plans changed. Explicit reassurance when Emma asked for it, without judgment.

In return, Emma was learning to trust. To challenge her catastrophic thoughts before acting on them. To ask for reality-checks rather than spiralling alone.

It wasn’t perfect. They still had misunderstandings. Emma still sometimes withdrew when feeling vulnerable. Rhys still sometimes forgot to text back quickly, sending Emma into brief panic.

But they worked through it. Every time.

A few weeks after starting medication, Emma and Rhys were alone in his room again. His parents had gone to a wedding for the weekend; his older sister was supposedly supervising but had disappeared to her boyfriend’s house.

They’d been watching something on his laptop, sprawled on his bed, when Rhys had started kissing her neck in that way that made her brain go quiet. One thing led to another, and now Emma was acutely aware of his hands on her skin, her shirt somewhere on the floor, the weight of him beside her.

‘Is this okay?’ Rhys asked, his hand hesitating at the waistband of her jeans.

Emma’s brain provided several catastrophic scenarios: He’ll see your body and change his mind. You’re not ready for this. You’re going to do it wrong. He’s going to tell everyone at school. This is moving too fast. You’re going to ruin everything.

But underneath the noise was something else: she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel close to someone without the constant barrier of anxiety.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But can we go slow? And can you tell me if I’m doing something wrong?’

‘You’re not going to do anything wrong. But yeah, we can go slow.’ He kissed her again, softer. ‘And Emma? You can change your mind any time. If your brain starts being mean, we stop. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

Later, lying tangled together, Emma felt something close to peace. Rhys’s fingers traced patterns on her shoulder.

‘You’re quiet,’ he said. ‘Good quiet or bad quiet?’

‘Good quiet.’ She hesitated. ‘My brain’s trying to find things to panic about, but I’m not letting it.’

‘What’s it saying?’

‘That I probably wasn’t very good. That you’re just being nice. That you’ll compare me to other girls and I’ll come up short.’

‘For the record, you were brilliant. And I’m not comparing you to anyone because there’s no one else I want to be with.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘Your brain needs to learn that I mean what I say.’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘I know you are.’

Emma’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. A reminder alarm: Take evening meds.

Rhys glanced at it. ‘Do you need to go?’

‘Not yet. I’ve got another hour.’ She settled more comfortably against him. ‘This is nice. Just being with you without panicking about everything.’

‘The medication’s helping?’

‘Yeah. It’s not magic, but it’s helping. I can still spiral, but it’s not quite as fast or as far.’ She paused. ‘Today would have been impossible a few months ago. I’d have frozen up, or convinced myself you didn’t actually want me, or ruined it somehow.’

‘You didn’t ruin anything. You were present. That’s all I wanted.’

They lay in comfortable silence until Emma’s second alarm went off, reminding her she needed to be home for dinner. Getting dressed felt weirdly intimate, more vulnerable than being undressed had been. Rhys watched her pull her shirt on, and Emma felt the familiar urge to apologise for her body, for taking up space, for being visible.

‘Stop,’ Rhys said gently.

‘Stop what?’

‘Whatever your brain is telling you right now. I can see it on your face.’

‘It’s saying I should apologise for my body. Which is ridiculous, I know.’

‘It is ridiculous. You’re gorgeous. All of you.’ He pulled her back down beside him. ‘I know your brain doesn’t believe that. But I’m going to keep saying it until maybe, eventually, you do.’

‘I need to tell you something,’ Emma said one evening in May, six weeks after her diagnosis. They were at Rhys’s house, playing Baldur’s Gate cooperatively on his larger screen. ‘I had a really bad RSD moment earlier.’

‘What happened?’

‘You didn’t react to that meme I sent. Just left it on read. And my brain immediately went to “he’s annoyed with you, you’re messaging too much, he’s pulling away.”’

‘I was in the shower. I saw it but didn’t have time to respond properly.’

‘I know that now. But for about twenty minutes, I properly spiralled. Convinced myself you were sick of me.’

‘Did you do that thing where you check with me before assuming?’

‘I did. Eventually. That’s why I’m telling you now instead of ghosting you for three days.’ Emma smiled slightly. ‘Growth, right?’

‘Definite growth.’ Rhys pulled her closer. ‘I’m proud of you. That must have been hard.’

‘It was. My instinct is still to pull away before I can get hurt. But I’m trying to trust that you’ll tell me if something’s actually wrong.’

‘I will. I promise. And you have to keep trusting that me not responding immediately doesn’t mean I’m rejecting you.’

‘Deal.’

 Part 11: The Setback

The medication was helping, but it wasn’t magic. Emma learned this the hard way three months after starting treatment.

It began small, the way these things always did. Rhys had been quieter than usual on a Tuesday, his responses to her messages delayed and brief. By Wednesday, Emma’s anxiety was mounting. By Thursday, she was convinced he was pulling away.

Emma opened Instagram whilst waiting for a response, immediately regretting it. Her feed was full of carefully curated lives. She checked Rhys’s profile. His last post was from yesterday: a photo with his mates, all of them grinning. Emma scanned the background obsessively. Was that a girl’s hand in the corner? Why hadn’t he mentioned going out? The comments were full of inside jokes Emma didn’t understand.

She closed the app before she could spiral further, but the damage was done.

When he cancelled their Friday plans with a terse Sorry, can’t make it, Emma felt the old familiar spiral beginning.

But this time, she tried her strategies. She texted Chloe for reality-checking. She read through previous reassuring messages from Rhys. She reminded herself about RSD, about how her brain catastrophised.

None of it helped. The pain was too intense, the certainty of rejection too overwhelming.

By Friday evening, Emma was back in the dark place she’d been months ago. Her chest hurt. Her hands were numb. She couldn’t focus on anything except the crushing knowledge that Rhys had finally had enough.

Emma pulled out her phone, opening Instagram for the hundredth time that day. Rhys’s last post was from Saturday morning: a selfie with the caption ‘weekend vibes.’ He looked happy. Relaxed. The post had 73 likes.

Emma clicked through to see who had liked it. Sophie was there. Along with half a dozen other girls Emma didn’t recognise. Girls who were probably prettier, more stable, less work.

She checked who had viewed his most recent Story. 82 people. Sophie had viewed it. Emma was pretty sure Sophie had been near the top of the list, which meant she’d viewed it quickly, which meant she was checking regularly, which meant...

Emma forced herself to stop. This was insane. She was analysing view order on Instagram Stories like it was evidence in a criminal trial.

But she couldn’t help it. She clicked through to Sophie’s profile. Sophie had posted a Story eight hours ago: a photo of a coffee cup with ‘needed this ☕’ as caption. The background looked like a café. The same café Rhys had mentioned wanting to try.

Coincidence? Or evidence?

Emma’s hands shook as she screenshotted the Story, zoomed in, looked for any sign of Rhys in the background. Nothing conclusive. But that almost made it worse. Her brain could fill in the gaps with whatever nightmare scenario felt most real.

She checked the café’s location tag. Found six posts from today. None of them showed Rhys. But he could have been there. Could have met Sophie. Could have realised that she was everything Emma wasn’t.

By the time her dad called, Emma had been through four years of Sophie’s Instagram posts, three years of Rhys’s, and had constructed an elaborate timeline of their alleged relationship based on circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up in any rational court.

But RSD wasn’t rational.

She tried to text him to ask if they were okay, but her hands shook too much to type. She tried to call Chloe, but couldn’t make herself dial. She sat on her bedroom floor, back against the bed, and felt the weight of her own brain crushing her.

Everyone would be better off without me, she thought. And this time, the thought didn’t alarm her enough. It just felt true.

She sat there for an hour, maybe two, the room darkening around her as evening faded into night. Her phone buzzed periodically, but she didn’t check it. Couldn’t.

Eventually, there was a knock on her door. Not her mother. Heavier, more insistent.

‘Emma.’ Rhys’s voice. ‘I know you’re in there. Chloe called me. I’m not leaving until you talk to me.’

Emma’s first instinct was to hide. To pretend she wasn’t there, to avoid the confrontation she was certain was coming. But some part of her, some tiny part not consumed by the RSD, recognised that this was the dangerous thinking. That isolation was the enemy.

She stood on shaking legs and opened the door.

Rhys looked terrible. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn with exhaustion.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been an absolute idiot.’

Emma blinked, confused. This wasn’t how the break-up speech was supposed to start.

‘Can I come in?’ Rhys asked.

Emma nodded, stepping back. Rhys entered, closing the door behind him, and then just stood there, looking at her with an expression of such genuine distress that Emma’s confusion deepened.

‘I messed up,’ Rhys said. ‘Really badly. My phone broke on Tuesday and I’ve been using my dad’s old one, but it’s ancient and doesn’t sync my messages properly and I didn’t realise you’d been texting until Chloe called me an hour ago completely frantic saying you weren’t answering and she was worried you might do something stupid.’

Emma’s brain struggled to process the words. ‘Your phone broke?’

‘Dropped it in the sink like an absolute muppet. And then I was so focused on getting my school stuff backed up that I didn’t think about how it would look to you, me suddenly going quiet. I’m so sorry, Emma. I should have found a way to let you know.’

‘So you weren’t pulling away?’

‘No!’ Rhys looked horrified. ‘God, no. I was just being an idiot with a broken phone. Emma, I’m not pulling away. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry I didn’t realise sooner that you’d be worrying.’

‘I did post on Instagram though,’ Emma said, her voice small. ‘So you had time for that.’

Rhys looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. ‘That was scheduled. I set up a bunch of posts to go automatically because I knew I’d be offline sorting my phone out.’ He pulled out his dad’s ancient phone. ‘This thing doesn’t even have Instagram on it. I can barely get texts. I haven’t been online properly since Tuesday.’

‘But you watched Stories. Your view count went up.’

‘That was probably automatic too? Or people rewatching? Emma, I promise you, I haven’t been on social media. I’ve been in phone hell trying to get everything working again.’

Emma felt shame burning through her. ‘I thought... I saw someone’s leg in the background of your Story. And I thought maybe you were with someone else. And then I saw you’d followed that girl Sophie and I spiralled thinking you’d met someone better and...’

‘Sophie’s my Physics lab partner. And that leg was my dad’s. He was helping me backup my phone.’ Rhys looked stricken. ‘Emma, you’ve been torturing yourself over completely innocent things.’

‘I know. I know it’s ridiculous. But I couldn’t stop. I kept checking and analysing and finding evidence that you were leaving me, even though I knew I was probably making it all up.’

‘Social media is terrible for RSD, isn’t it?’

‘It really is. Everything becomes evidence. Likes, follows, Story views, who posts what, who’s in the background of photos. My brain turns it all into proof that I’m being rejected.’

The relief was so intense it was almost painful. Emma felt her knees go weak and sat abruptly on the bed before they gave out completely.

‘I thought you were done with me,’ she whispered. ‘I was so sure.’

‘I know. Chloe explained.’ Rhys sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. ‘She said you were in a really bad place. Are you okay?’

‘I don’t know.’ Emma’s voice was small. ‘I tried to use my strategies. I tried to challenge the thoughts and look for evidence and all the things I’m supposed to do. But it was too strong. I couldn’t stop it.’

‘That’s okay. You’re allowed to have bad days. This stuff doesn’t just disappear because you know about it.’

‘But I should be better at managing it by now. I’m on medication. I have strategies. I’ve been working on this for months.’

‘Says who?’ Rhys’s voice was gentle. ‘Emma, it’s been months, not years. You’re learning. That means sometimes you’ll get it right and sometimes you won’t. That’s how learning works.’

Emma felt tears building again. ‘I’m tired of my brain being like this. I’m tired of feeling this way.’

‘I know. I wish I could fix it

Progress.

Braced for Impact - Part 10 Onwards

Part 10: The Assessment

Three weeks later, Emma sat in a private clinic in central London, waiting for her ADHD assessment. Her parents had scraped together the money for private because the NHS waiting list was nearly a year long. Emma felt guilty about the cost, but her dad had been firm: this was important. This was an investment in her future.

The assessment was exhaustive. Three hours of questions about her childhood, her struggles, her symptoms. Tests of attention and executive function. Questionnaires filled out by her parents, her teachers, herself.

Dr Patel, the psychiatrist conducting the assessment, was thorough but kind.

'You've clearly developed excellent compensatory strategies,' she said, reviewing Emma's notes. 'The masking is extensive. Most people wouldn't see the difficulties underneath.'

'Is that bad?'

'Not bad. Just exhausting, I imagine. You've worked very hard to appear neurotypical.'

'I didn't want people to think I was lazy or stupid.'

'That's common, especially in girls with ADHD. You learn early that your natural way of functioning isn't acceptable, so you build these elaborate systems to hide it.' Dr Patel looked at Emma directly. 'But those systems take enormous energy to maintain, don't they?'

'Yeah.' Emma felt tears threatening. 'I'm so tired all the time.'

'I imagine you are. The good news is, once we confirm the diagnosis and start treatment, that should ease. You won't have to work so hard just to function.'

'There's one more thing,' Emma said hesitantly. 'I don't think I have an eating disorder exactly, but food's become really difficult. I skip meals when I'm anxious. Sometimes I forget to eat for a whole day. And sometimes I eat loads late at night when I'm overwhelmed. It's like I've lost any normal relationship with hunger.'

Dr Patel nodded, making notes. 'That's actually quite common with RSD and ADHD. The emotional dysregulation affects appetite, and food can become a way of trying to manage overwhelming feelings. Some people restrict for control, others binge for comfort. It's part of the same struggle.'

'Is it going to get better?'

'With treatment, yes. The medication may help regulate your appetite, and therapy can address the emotional component. But you'll need to be intentional about eating regularly, even when you don't feel like it. Your brain needs consistent fuel to function properly.'

'There's something else,' Emma said, her face heating. 'About my body and... physical intimacy. I'm with someone, and when we're... intimate... my brain tells me I'm not good enough. That my body isn't right. That he's just being polite. It makes it really hard to be present.'

Dr Patel nodded. 'That's the RSD intersecting with body image issues. Your brain is catastrophising rejection even in moments of physical closeness and acceptance. Does your partner know you struggle with this?'

'Yeah. He's really patient about it.'

'Good. That helps. But it would also help to work on this with your therapist. Learning to stay present during intimate moments, to challenge the critical thoughts as they arise rather than letting them spiral.' Dr Patel made a note. 'The medication may help with that too. When the emotional dysregulation eases, it's easier to stay grounded in the present rather than catastrophising about the future.'

'There's one more thing,' Emma said. 'Social media. It makes my RSD so much worse but I can't stop checking it.'

'Tell me more about that.'

'I'm constantly comparing myself to other people. Analysing every like, every follow, every comment for evidence that I'm not good enough. I see photos from things I wasn't invited to and spiral thinking everyone hates me. I stalk my boyfriend's profile looking for evidence he's cheating or losing interest.' Emma felt her face burn with shame. 'I know it's unhealthy. But I can't stop.'

Dr Patel nodded, making notes. 'Social media is particularly difficult for people with RSD. It's essentially a constant stream of potential rejection triggers. Ambiguous information to analyse. Metrics that quantify your social worth. Curated images that make everyone else's life look perfect whilst yours feels chaotic.'

'Is that part of the ADHD too?'

'The compulsive checking is related to ADHD - difficulty resisting impulses, seeking dopamine hits from notifications. But the RSD amplifies the emotional impact of what you see. So yes, it's both.'

'What can I do about it?'

'Several things. First, awareness - which you already have. You know it's feeding your symptoms. Second, boundaries. Specific times to check rather than constant scrolling. Turn off notifications that aren't essential. Unfollow or mute accounts that consistently trigger comparison or anxiety. Third, challenge the narratives. When you see something that triggers RSD, ask yourself what evidence you actually have versus what your brain is assuming.'

'That all sounds really hard.'

'It is hard. Social media companies have literally engineered these platforms to be addictive. For someone with ADHD and RSD, you're fighting against both your neurotype and deliberate psychological manipulation.' Dr Patel looked at Emma directly. 'But it's worth it. Because right now, social media is actively harming your mental health.'

The formal diagnosis came a week later. ADHD, combined presentation. Moderate to severe. Recommendations for medication and ongoing therapy.

Emma cried when she read it. Not from sadness, but from relief.

She had a name for it. An explanation. She wasn't just broken or lazy or fundamentally flawed.

She was neurodivergent. Her brain worked differently. And that was okay.

The medication journey was trial and error. The first prescription made her feel numb, emotionally blunted in a way that was almost worse than the chaos. The second gave her headaches and killed her appetite completely.

The third, finally, helped.

Not dramatically. Not a cure. But enough that the constant noise in her head quieted slightly. Enough that focusing became marginally easier. Enough that the RSD, whilst still present, lost some of its sharp edges.

'It's not supposed to make you feel different,' Dr Patel had explained when Emma expressed disappointment that she still felt like herself. 'It's supposed to make executive function easier. You're still you, just with more capacity.'

And she was right. Emma still lost track of time sometimes, still struggled with task initiation, still needed structure and reminders. But it was manageable now. Survivable.

With Rhys, they'd developed a rhythm. A set of agreed-upon communication strategies that worked for both of them.

Morning texts. Quick check-ins during the day. Immediate explanations if plans changed. Explicit reassurance when Emma asked for it, without judgment.

In return, Emma was learning to trust. To challenge her catastrophic thoughts before acting on them. To ask for reality-checks rather than spiralling alone.

It wasn't perfect. They still had misunderstandings. Emma still sometimes withdrew when feeling vulnerable. Rhys still sometimes forgot to text back quickly, sending Emma into brief panic.

But they worked through it. Every time.

A few weeks after starting medication, Emma and Rhys were alone in his room again. His parents had gone to a wedding for the weekend; his older sister was supposedly supervising but had disappeared to her boyfriend's house.

They'd been watching something on his laptop, sprawled on his bed, when Rhys had started kissing her neck in that way that made her brain go quiet. One thing led to another, and now Emma was acutely aware of his hands on her skin, her shirt somewhere on the floor, the weight of him beside her.

'Is this okay?' Rhys asked, his hand hesitating at the waistband of her jeans.

Emma's brain provided several catastrophic scenarios: He'll see your body and change his mind. You're not ready for this. You're going to do it wrong. He's going to tell everyone at school. This is moving too fast. You're going to ruin everything.

But underneath the noise was something else: she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel close to someone without the constant barrier of anxiety.

'Yeah,' she said. 'But can we go slow? And can you tell me if I'm doing something wrong?'

'You're not going to do anything wrong. But yeah, we can go slow.' He kissed her again, softer. 'And Emma? You can change your mind any time. If your brain starts being mean, we stop. Deal?'

'Deal.'

Later, lying tangled together, Emma felt something close to peace. Rhys's fingers traced patterns on her shoulder.

'You're quiet,' he said. 'Good quiet or bad quiet?'

'Good quiet.' She hesitated. 'My brain's trying to find things to panic about, but I'm not letting it.'

'What's it saying?'

'That I probably wasn't very good. That you're just being nice. That you'll compare me to other girls and I'll come up short.'

'For the record, you were brilliant. And I'm not comparing you to anyone because there's no one else I want to be with.' He kissed her forehead. 'Your brain needs to learn that I mean what I say.'

'I'm working on it.'

'I know you are.'

Emma's phone buzzed on the nightstand. A reminder alarm: Take evening meds.

Rhys glanced at it. 'Do you need to go?'

'Not yet. I've got another hour.' She settled more comfortably against him. 'This is nice. Just being with you without panicking about everything.'

'The medication's helping?'

'Yeah. It's not magic, but it's helping. I can still spiral, but it's not quite as fast or as far.' She paused. 'Today would have been impossible a few months ago. I'd have frozen up, or convinced myself you didn't actually want me, or ruined it somehow.'

'You didn't ruin anything. You were present. That's all I wanted.'

They lay in comfortable silence until Emma's second alarm went off, reminding her she needed to be home for dinner. Getting dressed felt weirdly intimate, more vulnerable than being undressed had been. Rhys watched her pull her shirt on, and Emma felt the familiar urge to apologise for her body, for taking up space, for being visible.

'Stop,' Rhys said gently.

'Stop what?'

'Whatever your brain is telling you right now. I can see it on your face.'

'It's saying I should apologise for my body. Which is ridiculous, I know.'

'It is ridiculous. You're gorgeous. All of you.' He pulled her back down beside him. 'I know your brain doesn't believe that. But I'm going to keep saying it until maybe, eventually, you do.'

'I need to tell you something,' Emma said one evening in May, six weeks after her diagnosis. They were at Rhys's house, playing Baldur's Gate cooperatively on his larger screen. 'I had a really bad RSD moment earlier.'

'What happened?'

'You didn't react to that meme I sent. Just left it on read. And my brain immediately went to "he's annoyed with you, you're messaging too much, he's pulling away."'

'I was in the shower. I saw it but didn't have time to respond properly.'

'I know that now. But for about twenty minutes, I properly spiralled. Convinced myself you were sick of me.'

'Did you do that thing where you check with me before assuming?'

'I did. Eventually. That's why I'm telling you now instead of ghosting you for three days.' Emma smiled slightly. 'Growth, right?'

'Definite growth.' Rhys pulled her closer. 'I'm proud of you. That must have been hard.'

'It was. My instinct is still to pull away before I can get hurt. But I'm trying to trust that you'll tell me if something's actually wrong.'

'I will. I promise. And you have to keep trusting that me not responding immediately doesn't mean I'm rejecting you.'

'Deal.'

Part 11: The Setback

The medication was helping, but it wasn't magic. Emma learned this the hard way three months after starting treatment.

It began small, the way these things always did. Rhys had been quieter than usual on a Tuesday, his responses to her messages delayed and brief. By Wednesday, Emma's anxiety was mounting. By Thursday, she was convinced he was pulling away.

Emma opened Instagram whilst waiting for a response, immediately regretting it. Her feed was full of carefully curated lives. She checked Rhys's profile. His last post was from yesterday: a photo with his mates, all of them grinning. Emma scanned the background obsessively. Was that a girl's hand in the corner? Why hadn't he mentioned going out? The comments were full of inside jokes Emma didn't understand.

She closed the app before she could spiral further, but the damage was done.

When he cancelled their Friday plans with a terse Sorry, can't make it, Emma felt the old familiar spiral beginning.

But this time, she tried her strategies. She texted Chloe for reality-checking. She read through previous reassuring messages from Rhys. She reminded herself about RSD, about how her brain catastrophised.

None of it helped. The pain was too intense, the certainty of rejection too overwhelming.

By Friday evening, Emma was back in the dark place she'd been months ago. Her chest hurt. Her hands were numb. She couldn't focus on anything except the crushing knowledge that Rhys had finally had enough.

Emma pulled out her phone, opening Instagram for the hundredth time that day. Rhys's last post was from Saturday morning: a selfie with the caption 'weekend vibes.' He looked happy. Relaxed. The post had 73 likes.

Emma clicked through to see who had liked it. Sophie was there. Along with half a dozen other girls Emma didn't recognise. Girls who were probably prettier, more stable, less work.

She checked who had viewed his most recent Story. 82 people. Sophie had viewed it. Emma was pretty sure Sophie had been near the top of the list, which meant she'd viewed it quickly, which meant she was checking regularly, which meant...

Emma forced herself to stop. This was insane. She was analysing view order on Instagram Stories like it was evidence in a criminal trial.

But she couldn't help it. She clicked through to Sophie's profile. Sophie had posted a Story eight hours ago: a photo of a coffee cup with 'needed this ☕' as caption. The background looked like a café. The same café Rhys had mentioned wanting to try.

Coincidence? Or evidence?

Emma's hands shook as she screenshotted the Story, zoomed in, looked for any sign of Rhys in the background. Nothing conclusive. But that almost made it worse. Her brain could fill in the gaps with whatever nightmare scenario felt most real.

She checked the café's location tag. Found six posts from today. None of them showed Rhys. But he could have been there. Could have met Sophie. Could have realised that she was everything Emma wasn't.

By the time her dad called, Emma had been through four years of Sophie's Instagram posts, three years of Rhys's, and had constructed an elaborate timeline of their alleged relationship based on circumstantial evidence that wouldn't hold up in any rational court.

But RSD wasn't rational.

She tried to text him to ask if they were okay, but her hands shook too much to type. She tried to call Chloe, but couldn't make herself dial. She sat on her bedroom floor, back against the bed, and felt the weight of her own brain crushing her.

Everyone would be better off without me, she thought. And this time, the thought didn't alarm her enough. It just felt true.

She sat there for an hour, maybe two, the room darkening around her as evening faded into night. Her phone buzzed periodically, but she didn't check it. Couldn't.

Eventually, there was a knock on her door. Not her mother. Heavier, more insistent.

'Emma.' Rhys's voice. 'I know you're in there. Chloe called me. I'm not leaving until you talk to me.'

Emma's first instinct was to hide. To pretend she wasn't there, to avoid the confrontation she was certain was coming. But some part of her, some tiny part not consumed by the RSD, recognised that this was the dangerous thinking. That isolation was the enemy.

She stood on shaking legs and opened the door.

Rhys looked terrible. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn with exhaustion.

'I'm sorry,' he said immediately. 'I'm so sorry. I've been an absolute idiot.'

Emma blinked, confused. This wasn't how the break-up speech was supposed to start.

'Can I come in?' Rhys asked.

Emma nodded, stepping back. Rhys entered, closing the door behind him, and then just stood there, looking at her with an expression of such genuine distress that Emma's confusion deepened.

'I messed up,' Rhys said. 'Really badly. My phone broke on Tuesday and I've been using my dad's old one, but it's ancient and doesn't sync my messages properly and I didn't realise you'd been texting until Chloe called me an hour ago completely frantic saying you weren't answering and she was worried you might do something stupid.'

Emma's brain struggled to process the words. 'Your phone broke?'

'Dropped it in the sink like an absolute muppet. And then I was so focused on getting my school stuff backed up that I didn't think about how it would look to you, me suddenly going quiet. I'm so sorry, Emma. I should have found a way to let you know.'

'So you weren't pulling away?'

'No!' Rhys looked horrified. 'God, no. I was just being an idiot with a broken phone. Emma, I'm not pulling away. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry I didn't realise sooner that you'd be worrying.'

'I did post on Instagram though,' Emma said, her voice small. 'So you had time for that.'

Rhys looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. 'That was scheduled. I set up a bunch of posts to go automatically because I knew I'd be offline sorting my phone out.' He pulled out his dad's ancient phone. 'This thing doesn't even have Instagram on it. I can barely get texts. I haven't been online properly since Tuesday.'

'But you watched Stories. Your view count went up.'

'That was probably automatic too? Or people rewatching? Emma, I promise you, I haven't been on social media. I've been in phone hell trying to get everything working again.'

Emma felt shame burning through her. 'I thought... I saw someone's leg in the background of your Story. And I thought maybe you were with someone else. And then I saw you'd followed that girl Sophie and I spiralled thinking you'd met someone better and...'

'Sophie's my Physics lab partner. And that leg was my dad's. He was helping me backup my phone.' Rhys looked stricken. 'Emma, you've been torturing yourself over completely innocent things.'

'I know. I know it's ridiculous. But I couldn't stop. I kept checking and analysing and finding evidence that you were leaving me, even though I knew I was probably making it all up.'

'Social media is terrible for RSD, isn't it?'

'It really is. Everything becomes evidence. Likes, follows, Story views, who posts what, who's in the background of photos. My brain turns it all into proof that I'm being rejected.'

The relief was so intense it was almost painful. Emma felt her knees go weak and sat abruptly on the bed before they gave out completely.

'I thought you were done with me,' she whispered. 'I was so sure.'

'I know. Chloe explained.' Rhys sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. 'She said you were in a really bad place. Are you okay?'

'I don't know.' Emma's voice was small. 'I tried to use my strategies. I tried to challenge the thoughts and look for evidence and all the things I'm supposed to do. But it was too strong. I couldn't stop it.'

'That's okay. You're allowed to have bad days. This stuff doesn't just disappear because you know about it.'

'But I should be better at managing it by now. I'm on medication. I have strategies. I've been working on this for months.'

'Says who?' Rhys's voice was gentle. 'Emma, it's been months, not years. You're learning. That means sometimes you'll get it right and sometimes you won't. That's how learning works.'

Emma felt tears building again. 'I'm tired of my brain being like this. I'm tired of feeling this way.'

'I know. I wish I could fix it. But I can't. All I can do is promise that I'll be here, and I'll keep trying to communicate clearly, and when I mess up like this, I'll apologise and we'll work through it.'

'What if I can't get better at this? What if I'm always like this?'

'Then you're always like this, and I'll adapt.' Rhys squeezed her hand. 'Emma, I'm not with you because I think you'll stop having RSD. I'm with you because I like you. All of you, including the parts that struggle.'

Emma wanted to believe him. But the RSD was still whispering doubts, still insisting this was temporary patience that would eventually run out.

'What are you thinking?' Rhys asked softly.

'That you say that now, but eventually you'll get tired of dealing with me.'

'Maybe I will.' Rhys's honesty was startling. 'I don't know the future. But right now, today, I don't want to be anywhere else. And tomorrow, I'll wake up and probably still feel the same way. We can't plan for hypothetical future exhaustion. We can only deal with what's actually happening now.'

'And what's happening now?'

'Now, you're having a bad day and your brain is being mean to you. So I'm here, telling you that your brain is lying, and offering to stay with you until the lying quiets down a bit.'

Emma leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. 'Thank you for coming over.'

'Always. But next time you're in a dark place like this, please tell someone. Chloe was beside herself worrying about you. She thought...' He trailed off.

'That I might hurt myself?'

'Yeah.'

'I thought about it,' Emma admitted quietly. 'Just for a moment. Thought that everyone would be better off without me. But I didn't do anything. I just sat here.'

'That must have been really scary.'

'It was. It is. Sometimes my brain goes to such dark places and I don't know how to stop it.'

'Have you told Dr Patel about that?'

'Not yet. I will at my next appointment.'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

They sat in silence for a while, Emma drawing comfort from Rhys's solid presence. Eventually, she felt steady enough to sit up.

'I'm sorry I worried everyone,' she said. 'I thought I was handling it better than last time. But I wasn't, really. I was just failing more quietly.'

'You weren't failing. You were struggling. There's a difference.' Rhys stood, offering her his hand. 'Come on. Let's go downstairs and let Chloe know you're okay. She's probably worn a path in your carpet with all her pacing.'

Emma took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Her chest still ached. Her hands still trembled slightly. But she wasn't alone in the darkness anymore.

That had to count for something.

Later, after Rhys had left and Chloe had extracted a promise that Emma would text her if she felt that bad again, Emma lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The RSD hadn't gone away. Probably never would. But she'd survived another spiral. Had come out the other side. Had people who stayed even when her brain was at its worst.

Recovery wasn't linear. She'd learned that now. There would be good days and bad days and days where all her strategies failed and she ended up back in the darkness.

But there would also be people waiting to pull her back out.

That was enough to hold onto.

For now, it was enough.

Part 12: The Understanding

The GP appointment where Emma disclosed her suicidal ideation was one of the hardest conversations she'd ever had. Dr Matthews had listened carefully, asked difficult questions, and adjusted her referral to mark it as urgent.

'ADHD often co-occurs with anxiety and depression,' Dr Matthews had explained. 'And the RSD makes you particularly vulnerable to these kinds of thoughts. I'm glad you told me.'

She'd been referred to the mental health team for young people whilst waiting for ongoing support. The counsellor, a woman named Sarah, was kind but direct.

'These thoughts are a symptom,' Sarah had said in their first session. 'They're not truth. Your brain is experiencing extreme pain and it's trying to find solutions, even destructive ones. We need to give you better tools.'

Emma had started learning those tools. Distress tolerance skills for when the RSD hit hardest. Grounding techniques to bring herself back when she dissociated from the pain. Ways to ride out the intense emotional waves without catastrophising them into permanence.

'The key,' Sarah had explained, 'is recognising that intense feelings are temporary. They feel permanent when you're in them, but they're not. They're waves. They crest, and then they fall. Your job is to surf them without drowning.'

It was hard. Some days it felt impossible. The RSD would hit and Emma's brain would insist that this time it was different, this time the pain was permanent, this time everyone really had had enough.

But slowly, incrementally, things began to shift.

One evening in late June, Emma's mum knocked on her door around eight.

'Can we talk?'

Emma tensed immediately, preparing for criticism. But her mum just sat on the end of her bed, looking uncertain.

'I've been reading about ADHD,' her mum said. 'About RSD specifically. And I wanted to apologise.'

'For what?'

'For not understanding sooner. For all the times I told you to stop being so sensitive, or to get over things, or that you were making a big deal out of nothing.' Her mum's voice was thick. 'I didn't know you were in actual pain. I thought you were just being dramatic.'

'You weren't to know.'

'I should have known. I'm your mother. I should have seen that you were struggling.' Her mum took a breath. 'Your dad explained about the physical pain. About how it's not just emotional, it's neurological. Is that true? Does it actually hurt?'

'Yeah. Like someone's crushing my chest. Or like I've been punched. It's really physical.'

'That's horrible. Emma, I'm so sorry.' Her mum reached for her hand. 'I want to do better. I want to understand. Can you help me with that?'

Over the next hour, they talked. Properly talked, maybe for the first time in years. Emma explained about the RSD, about the constant vigilance required to interpret every interaction, about the way criticism felt like total rejection even when she knew logically it wasn't.

Her mum listened without interrupting, without dismissing, without trying to fix it.

'So when I made that comment about your room being messy,' her mum said slowly, 'and wondering how you manage. That wasn't just irritating. It felt like I was saying you were fundamentally incapable?'

'Yeah. Like you thought I was a complete disaster who couldn't do anything right.'

'But I don't think that. I just think your room is messy.'

'I know that now. But my brain doesn't separate "your room is messy" from "you're a mess." It all feels like the same thing.'

Her mum looked troubled. 'That must be exhausting. Constantly having to work out what people actually mean versus what your brain tells you they mean.'

'It really is.'

'I'll try to be more specific,' her mum said. 'Like, instead of "sometimes I wonder how you manage," I'll just say "please tidy your room." Just the concrete thing, not the commentary.'

'That would help a lot.'

'And if I mess up, will you tell me? Instead of spiralling alone?'

Emma felt tears prickling. 'Yeah. I'll try.'

'Thank you.' Her mum squeezed her hand. 'I love you, Emma. And I'm sorry it took me so long to understand.'

After her mum left, Emma sat in the silence of her room, processing the conversation. It wasn't a magic fix. Her mum would still make comments that triggered her sometimes. But having her understand, having her actually try to adapt, made an enormous difference.

With Chloe, their friendship had deepened through honesty. Emma had stopped hiding when she was struggling, stopped pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.

'My brain's being mean to me today,' she'd text, and Chloe would respond with reassurance or distraction or just acknowledgement.

'Noted. Want company or space?'

Emma had learned that Chloe needed honesty more than she needed perfection. That their friendship was strong enough to weather Emma's bad days.

One afternoon in July, Chloe's mum invited Emma over for tea. Emma had been nervous about meeting her, this woman who apparently shared her struggles.

But Chloe's mum, Julia, was warm and direct and immediately put Emma at ease.

'Chloe tells me you've been having a hard time,' Julia said over tea and biscuits. 'I wanted you to know you're not alone. The RSD nearly destroyed me before I understood what it was.'

'How did you cope? Before diagnosis?'

'Badly.' Julia laughed, but there was pain behind it. 'I pushed people away. Quit jobs. Sabotaged relationships because I was so sure they'd end anyway. I was in a constant state of anticipating rejection.'

'That sounds horrible.'

'It was. But getting diagnosed, understanding the RSD, that changed everything. Not because the feelings stopped, but because I could recognise them for what they were. My brain's faulty alarm system, not reality.'

'Does it get easier?'

'Yes and no. You get better at managing it. Better at challenging the catastrophic thoughts. But the feelings themselves don't disappear. You just learn to coexist with them rather than being controlled by them.'

'How long did that take?'

Julia considered. 'Honestly? I'm still learning. It's been five years since diagnosis and I still have days where I'm convinced everyone hates me. But those days are less frequent now. And I have better tools for riding them out.'

The conversation shifted to strategies, to medication, to the daily work of living with ADHD. Emma found herself relaxing, asking questions she'd been too embarrassed to ask Dr Patel or Sarah.

'What about relationships?' Emma asked. 'How do you manage the RSD with your husband?'

'Communication. Constant, sometimes exhausting, communication. He knows that when I pull away, it's usually because my brain is telling me he's disappointed in me. So he checks in. Offers reassurance without me having to ask. And I've learned to challenge my assumptions before acting on them.'

'Does he ever get tired of it?'

'Probably sometimes. But he loves me, so he deals with it. And I have my own quirks that annoy him.' Julia smiled. 'The key is finding someone who thinks you're worth the effort. And believing them when they say so.'

When Emma left that afternoon, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope. Not the desperate, fragile hope that everything would magically get better, but the solid hope that came from seeing someone further along the same path, still struggling but surviving.

She could do this. It would be hard, but she could do it.

Part 13: Progress and Acceptance

By the time Emma's A-level results came in August, she'd been on medication for four months and in therapy for six. The results were good, better than she'd expected given everything that had happened during the year. A* in English and Politics, an A in History.

Good enough for Durham, her first choice.

She'd cried when she'd opened the envelope, though whether from relief or overwhelm or simply the release of months of tension, she couldn't quite say.

Rhys had got into Manchester. Five hours away by train. Close enough to visit, far enough to be separate lives.

'Are you worried?' Chloe had asked that evening, the three of them sitting in the park with cans of cider stolen from someone's older sibling, celebrating the end of school and the beginning of whatever came next.

'About what?' Emma had asked, though she knew exactly what.

'About Rhys being at a different uni. About the distance.'

'Of course I'm worried.' Emma had taken a sip of her cider, grimacing at the taste. 'My brain is already catastrophising about him meeting someone else and realising I'm replaceable. But I'm trying to challenge those thoughts rather than believe them automatically.'

'That's very mature of you,' Rhys had said, squeezing her hand.

'It's exhausting is what it is. But probably healthier than my previous strategy of spiralling alone until I convinced myself everyone hated me.'

'Definitely healthier,' Chloe had agreed.

They'd talked about their plans, their fears, their hopes for the future. Emma had felt the familiar tug of anxiety about change, but also genuine excitement. She was going to study Politics and International Relations at Durham. She'd already found the gaming society, the D&D club, the fantasy book group.

She'd be okay. Not perfect, not cured, but okay.

Now, weeks later, Emma was packing for university. Her room looked strange, half-empty, full of boxes marked 'keep' and 'donate' and 'absolutely essential for survival.'

Her mother appeared in the doorway, carrying another box.

'Found these in the attic. Your old school books. Do you want them?'

Emma glanced at the box, recognising her neat handwriting on the spines. Year 8 History. Year 9 English. All the evidence of her younger self, working so hard to be perfect, to be good enough.

'No,' Emma said. 'I don't think I need those anymore.'

Her mother nodded, then hesitated in the doorway. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'Are you scared? About university, I mean. About managing everything.'

Emma considered the question. Six months ago, she would have lied. Would have said she was fine, absolutely fine, no worries at all. But she was trying to be more honest now. With herself and with others.

'Yeah, I'm terrified. I'm worried I won't be able to keep up with the work. That I'll fall behind because I can't focus. That I'll struggle to make friends because socialising is so exhausting. That my RSD will make relationships impossible.' She paused. 'I'm worried about the dining hall. About eating in front of hundreds of people. About my weird relationship with food getting worse when I'm stressed. I'm worried I'll lose more weight, or that I'll start using food to cope and gain loads, and either way my body will become another thing I've failed at controlling.'

Her mother looked troubled. 'You've been doing better with the eating though, haven't you? Since we've been monitoring it?'

'Yeah. Better. Not perfect, but better. I'm just scared that when I'm on my own, without someone checking in, I'll slip back into old patterns.'

'Then we'll set up check-ins. Video calls at mealtimes if you need them. And you can register with the university health services, let them know it's something you struggle with.'

'That feels embarrassing.'

'It's not embarrassing. It's being honest about what you need.'

'You're very brave,' her mother said quietly.

'I'm not brave. I'm just trying to survive with the brain I've got.'

'Those can be the same thing.'

After her mother left, Emma sat on her half-packed bed, looking around her room. This space had witnessed so much pain. So many nights spent crying, convinced she was fundamentally flawed. So many hours lost to spiralling, to catastrophising, to the weight of anticipation.

But it had also witnessed healing. Late-night conversations with Rhys, talking through her fears. Study sessions with Chloe, learning to ask for help. Difficult conversations with her parents, building understanding.

She picked up her phone, pulling up the group chat with Rhys and Chloe.

Packing is weird. Keep finding old stuff and remembering who I used to be. Feeling a bit emotional about it all.

The responses came quickly.

Rhys: Who you used to be or who you thought you had to be?

Chloe: You're allowed to be emotional. Big changes are scary. We've got you though x

Emma smiled, typing back: Thanks. Love you both. Even when my brain tries to convince me otherwise.

Rhys: Especially then x x x

She put the phone down and returned to packing. The RSD was still there, whispering its familiar anxieties about the future. But she'd learned something important over the past year: the presence of fear didn't mean the absence of hope.

She was going to university with ADHD, with RSD, with all the complicated ways her brain worked differently. She would struggle. She would have bad days. She would probably have complete meltdowns when the stress got too high and the rejection felt too real.

But she would also have good days. Days when she managed her symptoms effectively. Days when she asked for help without shame. Days when she believed, truly believed, that she was worth the effort of staying.

And maybe, eventually, the good days would outnumber the bad.

Her dad arrived that evening to help with the final packing. They worked in comfortable silence, folding clothes, wrapping fragile items, making lists of things Emma still needed to buy.

'I got you something,' her dad said, pulling a small wrapped package from his bag. 'For uni.'

Emma unwrapped it to find a leather-bound notebook, the cover embossed with a d20.

'For your campaigns,' her dad said. 'I know you're joining the gaming society. Thought you might want somewhere to keep notes about your characters.'

Emma felt tears prickling. 'Thanks, Dad.'

'And this.' He handed her an envelope. Inside was a letter, handwritten in his terrible scrawl.

Emma,

I'm so proud of you. Not because you got into Durham or because you got good A-levels, though those things are brilliant. I'm proud because you kept going when things were impossibly hard. Because you asked for help when you needed it. Because you learned to be honest about your struggles instead of hiding them.

University will be difficult. There will be days when the RSD is overwhelming, when you're convinced you don't belong, when your brain insists everyone would be better off without you. On those days, remember: your brain is lying. You belong. You matter. You are worth the effort.

You're going to meet other people with ADHD at uni. People who understand what it's like to fight your own brain every day. Find them. Build your community. You don't have to do this alone.

And remember that failure isn't falling apart. Failure is refusing to try. You've already succeeded by getting this far.

I love you. I believe in you. And I'm always here if you need me.

Dad x

Emma read the letter three times, tears streaming down her face. Then she carefully folded it and put it in the front pocket of her suitcase, where she could access it easily when needed.

Her Switch and her favourite books went in next, along with her gaming dice and character sheets. The things that made her her, that she'd spent so long thinking were childish or frivolous but had learned were essential to her survival.

She wasn't leaving behind the parts of herself that didn't fit the mould. She was bringing them with her.

That night, Emma couldn't sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing through everything that could go wrong. The RSD was in full voice, cataloguing every possible failure, every potential rejection.

But this time, she had tools to fight back.

She pulled up her phone and started a list:

Things I know to be true:

1. My parents love me

2. Rhys loves me

3. Chloe loves me

4. I have ADHD and that's okay

5. The RSD makes me think people are rejecting me, but that doesn't make it true

6. I'm allowed to struggle

7. Asking for help is strength, not weakness

8. I deserve to take up space

9. My hobbies are valid

10. I am enough

11. I can be brave even when I'm terrified

12. My people exist and I can find them

13. Recovery isn't linear and that's okay

14. I'm doing my best and my best is enough

She read through the list three times, letting each statement settle. They didn't eliminate the anxiety, but they provided something solid to hold onto when the catastrophising started.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Rhys, sent at nearly 2 AM.

Can't sleep either. Too excited/terrified. Want to video call?

Emma called him immediately. His face appeared on screen, hair messy, eyes tired but warm.

'Hey,' he said.

'Hey.'

'So this is happening. We're actually going to university.'

'We really are.'

'Are you spiralling?'

'Bit, yeah. You?'

'Absolutely. Keep thinking about all the ways I'm going to mess up and disappoint everyone.' Rhys smiled ruefully. 'Turns out I catastrophise too. I'm just quieter about it.'

'We're a right pair, aren't we?'

'We really are.' He shifted, getting more comfortable. 'Want to know what I do when I'm spiralling?'

'What?'

'I think about you. About the fact that you have RSD and catastrophise constantly and yet you keep going. You keep trying. You keep being brave even when your brain is screaming at you that everything's terrible.' He looked at her directly through the screen. 'You inspire me, Emma. Even on your worst days.'

'I don't feel very inspiring.'

'You don't have to feel it for it to be true.'

They talked until nearly four, about their fears and hopes and the strange mix of excitement and terror that came with this kind of change. Eventually, Emma felt steady enough to try sleeping again.

'Thank you,' she said before they hung up. 'For understanding. For staying. For all of it.'

'Always,' Rhys said. 'That's not changing just because we're at different universities. You're stuck with me, RSD and all.'

'Good.'

'Good.'

Epilogue: The Weight We Carry

Emma's first week at Durham was simultaneously wonderful and overwhelming. The campus was beautiful, her accommodation was decent, and the other students on her floor were friendly. But the constant socialising, the newness of everything, the pressure to make good impressions, left her exhausted.

By Wednesday evening, she'd retreated to her room and hadn't left except for lectures. The RSD was in full voice, insisting that everyone thought she was weird, that she'd already failed at making friends, that she should just give up now.

Her phone buzzed. A message in a group chat she hadn't noticed being added to.

Durham Gaming Society - First Session Tonight!

Emma stared at the message. She should go. This was exactly the kind of thing she needed, a chance to meet people who shared her interests.

But the anxiety was overwhelming. What if they didn't like her? What if she said something stupid? What if she was too enthusiastic and scared everyone off?

Another message came through, this time from Rhys.

How's it going? Have you found the gaming society yet?

Emma typed back: They're meeting tonight. I don't think I can face it.

Why not?

Too anxious. Brain is being mean.

What's it saying?

That I'll mess it up. That no one will like me. The usual.

And what do you know to be true?

Emma smiled despite herself. Rhys had memorised her list.

That the RSD is lying, she typed. That I'm allowed to take up space. That my hobbies are valid.

Exactly. So go to the meeting. If it's terrible, you can leave. But you might meet your people.

You sound like my dad.

Your dad's a smart man. Now go. I want a full report on what campaign they're running.

Emma sat with her anxiety for another ten minutes, feeling it fully rather than trying to push it away. Then she stood up, pulled on her hoodie, and left her room before she could talk herself out of it.

The gaming society met in a common room in one of the older buildings. Emma could hear laughter and chatter before she even reached the door. She paused outside, her hand on the handle, her heart racing.

You can do this. It's just people. People who like the same things you like.

She pushed open the door.

The room was full of students sprawled on sofas and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Someone had set up several gaming monitors. Another group was huddled around a table covered in character sheets. The energy was chaotic but welcoming.

A girl near the door looked up and smiled. 'Hi! First time?'

'Yeah. I'm Emma. Just started Politics.'

'Brilliant! I'm Sarah, second year English. Are you into video games or tabletop or both?'

'Both. Mostly RPGs. I've been playing D&D for years.'

'Perfect! We've got two campaigns running at the moment. One's full but the other has space if you're interested.'

Over the next two hours, Emma met more people than she'd spoken to all week. They talked about builds and campaigns and their favourite games. Someone mentioned Baldur's Gate and Emma found herself in an animated conversation about choice-consequence mechanics and companion storylines.

No one seemed to think she was too much. If anything, her enthusiasm was matched by everyone else's.

'We're playing tomorrow night too if you want to join,' Sarah said as people started packing up. 'More casual, just some co-op gaming. No pressure though.'

'I'd like that,' Emma said. And meant it.

Walking back to her accommodation, Emma felt lighter than she had all week. The RSD was still there, already whispering about all the ways she'd probably messed up the first impression. But she'd done it. She'd gone, she'd talked to people, she'd found her community.

That night, she texted Rhys with a full report, then called her dad to tell him about the D&D campaign she'd be joining. Both of them were delighted.

'See?' her dad said. 'Your people are out there. You just have to be brave enough to find them.'

'I was terrified.'

'I know. But you did it anyway. That's what bravery is.'

A few weeks later, Emma and Rhys were at the park, enjoying the late summer weather before university started. Emma had her phone out, scrolling through Instagram, when Rhys glanced over.

'You seem more relaxed with that lately,' he observed.

'Yeah. I've been working on it.' Emma showed him her phone. 'I unfollowed a bunch of people who made me feel bad about myself. Muted Stories from people whose lives just made me feel inadequate. Turned off notifications for likes and follows.'

'How's that working?'

'Better. I still check too much, but at least when I do, I'm not bombarded with things that trigger my RSD.' She paused. 'I also stopped checking who views your Stories.'

Rhys looked surprised. 'You were doing that?'

'Constantly. Analysing the view order. Checking who you followed. Looking for evidence you were losing interest.' Emma felt her face heat. 'I know it was ridiculous.'

'Not ridiculous. Just painful for you.' He took her hand. 'I'm glad you're being kinder to yourself.'

'I'm trying. Though I did have a moment last week where I saw you'd liked some girl's post and my brain immediately went to worst-case scenario.'

'What did you do?'

'Checked with you before spiralling. Like we agreed.' Emma smiled. 'You said she was your cousin.'

'She is my cousin!'

'I know. But for about five minutes, my brain had constructed this whole narrative about you secretly dating her.' Emma laughed at herself. 'The RSD doesn't care about logic.'

'But you checked instead of spiralling silently. That's growth.'

'It is. And I've been trying to post things I actually like rather than things I think will get likes. Like, I posted about finishing Sanderson's new book yesterday even though I knew it wouldn't get as many likes as a selfie would.'

'How did that feel?'

'Scary. But also kind of freeing? Like I was being more myself online instead of performing.' She showed him the post. 'Only got twelve likes, but the comments were actually meaningful. People who wanted to talk about the book rather than just double-tapping and moving on.'

'Quality over quantity.'

'Exactly. My therapist says social media should be about connection, not validation. So I'm trying to use it that way.' Emma locked her phone and put it away. 'Which means actually being present with you instead of scrolling through other people's lives.'

'I like that version of social media much better.'

Emma lay in bed that night, processing the day. University was going to be hard. There would be bad days, days when the RSD was overwhelming, days when she was convinced she didn't belong.

But there would also be good days. Days like today, when she pushed through the fear and found connection on the other side.

The weight of anticipation, the constant fear of rejection, hadn't disappeared. But Emma had learned to carry it differently. Not as proof that she was broken, but as part of the complicated reality of living with ADHD.

She pulled up her phone and added to her list of things she knew to be true:

15. Social media doesn't define my worth

16. I can curate my online spaces to protect my mental health

17. Being myself is more important than being liked

The list was getting longer. She'd probably add to it for years, collecting evidence against the catastrophising, building proof of her worth.

A final text came through, from Chloe this time.

Heard you went to gaming society! Proud of you x

Emma smiled in the darkness of her room.

She was going to be okay. Not perfect, not cured, but okay.

And okay was enough.

The weight of anticipation, the constant fear of rejection, doesn't disappear. But with understanding, support, and self-compassion, it becomes bearable. The journey from shame to acceptance is long and non-linear. But every step forward, no matter how small, matters.

For those living with RSD: your pain is real, your struggles are valid, and you are not too much. You're exactly right, just as you are.

The weight we carry doesn't have to crush us. Sometimes, with the right support and understanding, it can teach us strength we didn't know we had.