In high school, my special-ed teacher—oh gosh, it makes me want to throw up saying that. Special-ed teacher. It’s frigging mortifying. Anyway, the teacher assigned to me had an arsenal of tips to help me better organize my thoughts. Like making flash cards or using sticky notes to jot down various ideas. Over time, I figured out it worked best to write one idea per note, and then arrange them until they all flow together to form one coherent train of thought.

To begin my midterm’s outline, I sit on the floor of my room with my supplies lined up and ready for use: highlighters, Post-It notes, erasable pens. I’m wearing thick wool socks and sipping on a big cup of herbal tea. I got this. I’m a rock star.

I start off by writing decade headings on each yellow note—1910s, ’20s, ’30s, ’40s. It’ll probably be easier to organize the paper chronologically. I know I have a ton of research ahead of me, but for now I rely on what I know about those time periods. Up until the Great Depression, I’m pretty sure bright colors were all the rage. I write that down on a sticky.

Roaring ’20s, we’re looking at flappers. Another sticky gets written.

Women’s fashion favored a boyish look for a while—I think maybe that was the ’30s? I stick another note to the floor. But I feel like the ’30s also produced a lot of feminine, frilly tops? And speaking of frilly tops, I saw like five of them at the Barneys on Madison over the break. Are they back in style?

Oh, and I forgot to tell a girlfriend from Brown about Barneys! They’re having a super-secret VIP sale on Valentine’s Day weekend. She’s going to lose her mind when she finds out.

I grab my phone and shoot a quick message to Courtney. Her response is instantaneous.

COURT: OMG!!!!!!

* * *

ME: I know!!!

* * *

COURT: We’re going, right?

* * *

ME: OBVIOUSLY!!

We text back and forth in pure excitement, until I suddenly realize I’ve spent ten minutes talking about a clothing sale instead of doing my work.

Grrr.

I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. I list as many trends I can think of, then nod in approval. There. Now I simply need to go into detail about each one and explain the societal factors and events that shaped fashion over time.

Wait. Is that my thesis?

No, you idiot. You still have to come up with one.

I bite my lip harder than necessary. My inner critic is, frankly, a total bitch. My old therapist was always preaching about self-love, urging me to treat myself kindly, but that’s easier said than done. When you have one major insecurity that rules your life, your subconscious doesn’t let you forget it.

Loving yourself is hard enough. Silencing the inner critic borders on impossible. For me, at least.

I inhale a slow, steady breath. It’s fine. This is fine. I don’t have to think up a thesis right this second. I can gather all the information first, and then once I begin to piece it together, a general hypothesis will form.

But there’s so much information. A mere five minutes of Googling on my laptop leaves me overwhelmed with facts. And the more I read, the broader the topic becomes. I have no idea how to narrow it down, and the panic hits me like a fist to the stomach.

I take another breath, but it’s quick and choppy, and I don’t think any of the oxygen actually enters my lungs.

I hate this. I hate this essay, and I hate myself.

My eyes feel hot. They start to sting. I rub them, but the act of touching them unleashes the tears I’m trying to suppress.

Stop crying, my inner critic scolds. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just an essay.

I try again to draw air into my lungs. My brain begins to scroll through the exercises my counselors and parents encourage me to do during a panic attack: I repeat that I’m going to be okay. I visualize giving myself a big hug. I think of Nana Celeste (who always calms me). But the scrolling stops when my gaze drops to the sea of yellow stickies on the floor, the jumble of thoughts that make up my nutty brain.

Another choked sob slips out.

“Summer?”

I freeze at the sound of Fitz’s voice. It’s followed by a soft knock on my door.

“You okay?”

My breath escapes in a trembling wheeze. “F-fine!” I manage to answer, and cringe at the crack in my voice.

He hears it too. “I’m opening the door now, okay?”

“No,” I blurt out. “I’m fine, Fitz. I promise.”

“I don’t believe you.” The door eases open and his handsome, worried face appears.

He takes one look at me and curses roughly. Before I can blink, he’s kneeling beside me. One warm hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “What’s wrong?” he demands.

“Nothing.” My voice shakes again.

“You’re crying. That’s not nothing.” His eyes drop to the dozens of notes stuck to the floor. “What’s all this?”

“Evidence of my stupidity,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop saying nothing. Talk to me.” His thumb rubs a gentle line up my wet cheek. “I’m a good listener, I promise. Tell me what’s wrong.”

My lips start quivering. Dammit, I feel another wave of tears coming. And that makes me angry again. “I can’t fucking do this, that’s what’s wrong.”

I fling a hand out and sweep the Post-It notes away. Some of them remain stuck to the hardwood, while others fly across the room or slide under the bed.

Fitz plucks one of the notes and reads it. “Is this for a paper you’re working on?”

“Midterm,” I whisper. “Which I’m going to fail.”

Letting out a breath, he shifts positions so he’s sitting. He hesitates for a beat, before reaching for me.

Maybe if I wasn’t feeling so vulnerable at the moment, I would’ve been strong enough to push him away. But I’m weak and I feel defeated, and when he holds out his arms, I climb into his lap, bury my face against his chest, and allow him to comfort me.

“Hey,” he murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down my back. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed by school. We all stress about it.”

“You get stressed?” I ask in a small voice.

“All the time.”

His fingers thread through my hair, and I suddenly feel like a child again. My mom used to stroke my hair whenever I got upset. Sometimes my brother Nick did too, if I scraped a knee or bumped my head thanks to whatever daredevil stunt I’d attempted that day. I was a rambunctious kid. Hell, I’m a rambunctious adult.

The warmth of Fitz’s strong body seeps into me. I press my cheek to his collarbone and voice an embarrassed confession. “I have a learning disability.”

“Dyslexia?” His voice is thick with understanding.

“No. It’s more of a cluster of symptoms related to ADHD. I have a very hard time concentrating and organizing my thoughts on paper. I was on medication for it when I was a kid, but the meds gave me terrible headaches and made me nauseous and dizzy, so I went off them. I tried taking them again in my teens, but the same symptoms kept happening.” I give a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. “My brain doesn’t like the meds. Unfortunately, that means it’s up to me to focus my thoughts, and that’s really hard sometimes.”