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Checkpoint: Reflections and Fears

The next week rolled in with grey skies and a sense of steady rhythm. For the first time in a long while, Jace didn't dread waking up. He still snoozed his alarm twice–but the feeling wasn't heavy, just... normal.

He was learning the campus by heart now: which vending machine actually gave change, which staircase was least crowded, and which bench outside got the best sunlight before noon.

More importantly, he was learning people. And one person, in particular.

Robin had quickly become more than just a classmate.

They shared a sense of humour, a love for retro pixel aesthetics, and a mutual understanding of what it felt like to be "almost okay but still figuring stuff out." Their conversations were a mix of deep thoughts, dumb jokes, and occasional accidental overshares.

They'd started eating lunch together most days–always near the art block, where the garden was quiet and the wifi was just wrong enough to stream music.

Today, Jace sat beside them with his sketchpad open, quietly refining a set or mushroom tiles.

Robin leaned over. "Are those for your forest levels?"

"Kind of. I want to build a new area–like a hidden grove or something. With weird glowing plants."

"I love that." Robin smiled, then paused. "You've been doing better lately."

Jace hesitated. "Sort of. Some days are still... messy."

"Yeah. Me too."

Robin pulled a card from their bag and handed it to him. It was a laminated rectangle with rounded corners–pastel purple with little stars drawn in black ink.

"You're allowed to be a work-in-progress."

"What's this?"

"I made them," Robin said. "For when my brain decides to be mean. I keep one in my wallet. Figured you could use one too."

Jace held it for a moment. It wasn't anything big, but if felt like something important.

"Thanks," he said. "Really."

Later that day, during a game dev lab, Jace's brain hit a wall again. He was supposed to write a short piece of dialogue for a cutscene–but every sentence sounded wrong, clunky, fake. His thoughts felt tangled. His breathing got shallow.

He looked around. Everyone else was typing.

He wasn't.

Robin glanced over. "You stuck?"

"I can't focus. Like–it just... disappears. I read the brief and two seconds later it's gone."

Robin nodded. "You ever talked to anyone about ADHD?"

The question made Jace freeze.

"I... I think I might have it," he admitted. "But no diagnosis or anything. I tried bringing it up with my mam but–waiting lists, paperwork, life. It's a mess."

"Yeah," Robin said gently. "Same boat. I'm technically on a list. Been over a year."

Jace blinked. "You too?"

"Yep. You're not alone, Jace. Not even a little."

That hit him hard. Not in a bad way. Just–like he'd been holding something heavy for so long, and now someone else was offering to carry a piece of it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes after that. Just existing. Just being understood.

Before they packed up for the day, Robin glanced at him again. "Hey... there's this quiet café a few streets from here. Big plants. Cozy couches. You wanna go after class sometime? No pressure."

Jace blinked. He wasn't used to being invited. Not like that.

"Yeah," he said, voice quieter than he meant it. "I'd like that."

That night, back in his room, Jace placed the card Robin gave him on his desk–right between his laptop and his sketchpad.

It wasn't magic. But it felt like something true.

He updated the note in his phone again:

Day 12: brain glitched. didn't hide. Someone saw me and stayed.