Camillo takes a very, very long shower.
At first it's to get the shadows of dream-blood off his hands, and by the end it's to wash off the sweat of a stressful night before he goes to class, and maybe there's a little bit in the middle where he's crying about a boy who never existed and whom he wasn't actually dating even in the dream.
Aliens aren't real. Weird dream aliens with weird dream magic definitely aren't real. He's been having unusually long and vivid dreams with a surprising amount of continuity, fine. He already knew he had a sleep disorder. It's objectively not any weirder than the time he slept over at Z's house and both of them woke up in the middle of a blowjob neither of them remembered initiating.
Out of the shower, he scrubs his hair with a towel and pulls on clothes -- fresh underwear, yesterday's jeans, one of the nice shirts Valentine was convinced he needed for college. His books are already weighing down his backpack. The first class of the day isn't until eleven but the library is a better place to study than his dorm room.
It's a pleasant morning for biking. The sun is shining, the breeze is mild, a flock of pigeons are squabbling over half an abandoned burger. Students are rushing back and forth between classes en masse, on foot and bike and wheelchair and dorky little hoverboard. Someone is handing out flyers about free speech in the Middle East.