Chapter 5:

#TheHighLife

I walked out of his office, clutching my waist.

For future check-ins, I’d remember to show up with an empty stomach.

My hands slipped on Herbie’s steering wheel, slick with sweat.

At Pritzker, you did whatever it took to become the “Pritzker Pick”—the top-ranked student with first dibs on the best med schools. People skipped laundry, meals, even a late-night booty call to squeeze in more study time.

But I knew the secret sauce—mastering the cocktail of Adderall, Prozac, and Ambien.

Last year, I’d been there—dry-swallowing pharmaceutical sunshine like a human Pez dispenser.

Would I eventually spiral into depression like my mother did at Pritzker? Or lose my marbles like my aunt?

My shoes scuffed the pavement as I approached the apartment. The lights were off. Good.

“You are the owner of all your actions.” Doya’s words echoed in my mind.

I pictured myself in the Indonesian monastery’s garden, digging into the soil, as if connected to both nothing and everything. “Find out how your mother lived—break your curse with death.”

I tossed my bag onto the bed and rushed into the kitchen. On top of the cupboard sat my stash—Ziploc bags carefully labeled in English and Bahasa Indonesian.

I pulled a few down, measured out small quantities, and turned on the stove.

***

It was almost midnight, and the kitchen smelled like a chocolate shop. As I was putting away the pralines I’d made, Eleanor walked in.

Her face lit up as the sweet aroma hit her. “Did I die and end up in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”

“Just making some chocolates,” I said curtly, fingers tightening around the mixing spoon.

The conversation with the dean about putting me on probation kept replaying in my mind—on a constant, exhausting loop.

“At midnight?” Her eyebrows rose.

I didn’t owe her an explanation, but I gave one anyway. “Making chocolate helps me de-stress.”

She tilted her head. “Aren’t pre-med students always stressed?”

Point taken. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“I could use a pick-me-up after a ten-hour coding marathon,” she said, reaching for a chocolate.

Her fingers hovered over the box. My pulse spiked. If she ate one—

No. I slapped the lid shut.

“Not for you,” I said sharply. Her eyebrows shot up.

I hadn’t labeled this batch—rookie mistake.

Otherwise, someone like Eleanor—already high on life—didn’t need to get high on my recipe too.

These weren’t ordinary chocolates—they were infused with a secret blend of monastery herbs that were more mystical than medicinal.

Luckily, the unibrow customs agent didn’t flag them.

According to Doya, the wise woman from the Indonesian monastery, the herbs possessed remarkable properties—one of which, she claimed, was the ability to transcend time.

An herbal time machine?

Absurd.

And yet…

Every time I ate one, Parker came back to me. His voice. His touch. His gorgeous smile.

As if he’d never gone.

Was it really the chocolates or was I just heartbroken?

Is this what now fueled my Parker smut-spirals?

“They’re bitter... low in sugar for my Keto diet.”

“I’m not a fan of healthy junk food, so… anyways, good night,” she said as I made a beeline for my room.

The smell of melted chocolate dragged me back to those late nights in the shared kitchen—Zara humming, Parker’s laughter spilling into the air.

His hand would brush mine when we passed the mixing spoon, and every time I pretended my stomach didn’t flip.

And then there was the way his mouth puckered around a praline… the same way I imagined it would around mine.

But now, they were gone. Off to college. Out of state. Out of reach.

Were they still angry?

Did they think I was dead?

Or worse…

Did they simply not care?

All I knew was, I wasn’t here to make new friends.

This wasn’t an episode of Friends.

It was a classic urban transaction: coexist, compartmentalize, survive.

I swallowed hard, the streetlights outside blinking like weary fireflies, one by one slipping away.

Was I running from Parker and Zara—

or being pushed by ghosts I couldn’t escape?

***

Could the chocolates actually be a portal to the future? Almost as sleek as a DeLorean… and twice as irresistible.

XOXO,

Sabina