Chapter 1 — The Worst Day of the Week

What is it like to think about pain?

Not the kind you can point to. Not a cut or a bruise. The kind that lives in your head. The kind that grows the more you think about it. You replay things, twist them, stretch them—convincing yourself it will get better with time. But somehow, it only gets worse.

That’s the problem with overthinking. It doesn’t solve anything. It just makes everything heavier.

And somehow… it always feels worse on a Monday morning.

There’s just something about it. Maybe it’s the way the world feels colder. Maybe it’s the way your body refuses to move, like it knows what’s coming. Mondays feel cursed. Like they’ve been hated since the beginning of time—since cavemen first had to wake up and do something they didn’t want to do.

“Argh… wake up. Wake up!”

My eyes snap open.

There’s a naked guy on top of me. Shaking me. Yelling in my face.

For a solid two seconds, my brain tries to process it. Then lands on the only logical explanation.

This is a dream.

Half-awake, I raise an eyebrow and squint at him.

“Did you do me?”

“What?!” he shouts.

“Did you do me?” I repeat, calmer this time.

“The hell, bro? Why would I do that?”

I stare at him, unimpressed. “We all know you like handsome little boys like me.”

He freezes. Just stares.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he mutters. “You’re acting weird.”

“Just admit it.”

“First of all,” he says, sitting back, “you ain’t a boy—you’re an old bastard. And second, you are the ugliest guy I know.”

I nod slowly. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“You like boys.”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then stops. You can actually see the moment he gives up. Smart choice.

“Just wake up,” he sighs. “You have a 7 a.m. lecture.”

I groan and roll over. “Can I choose not to go?”

“Unless you want your dad here in five minutes, no.”

That does it.

I sit up immediately. “Damn. Give me five minutes.”

You wouldn’t think it, but my dad—my father—is the dean of this school.

Yeah.

Let me take you back.

Three Years Earlier

It was the end of my last year in high school. Freedom was close. All I had to do was get into a university… preferably one far, far away from my father.

So I applied to five different universities.

Very carefully avoiding his.

Two months later, the responses came in.

Five letters. Five different schools. All sitting neatly on the table.

My family gathered around me, watching like it was some kind of ceremony. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I picked up the first letter and opened it.

“Congratulations…”

Relief hit instantly.

I got in.

Excited, I grabbed the second letter.

“Congratulations…”

Third.

“Congratulations…”

Fourth.

“Congratulations…”

Fifth.

“Congratulations…”

I froze.

Same word. Same tone. Same… everything.

Slowly, I looked up.

Everyone was smiling. Watching me.

Everyone—except my dad.

He was still sitting down. Calm. Not even trying to look at the letters.

I should have known something was off.

My hands started to shake as I reread one of them.

“Congratulations, you have been accepted for this year’s enrollment into Pringston University.”

I blinked.

Then grabbed another.

Same sentence.

Another.

Same sentence.

All five letters.

Different envelopes. Different logos.

Same acceptance.

Same university.

Pringston University.

My dad’s university.

I looked up at him.

He finally smiled.

Present

And that… is how I ended up at a school where my father is the dean.

On a Monday.

At 7 a.m.

Living my worst life.