But as I turn back to my bike, something inside me shifts.
Just a flicker.
And I ignore it.
I hiccup.
Or at least, I think I do.
Maybe it’s just a phantom echo of the memory lodged somewhere in the back of my throat as I blink up at the lavender print across the room.
The frame is a little crooked. Just enough to bug me, but I’m too tired to fix it.
My head hangs off the foot of the bed, gravity pulling at my face until everything feels heavy and upside down, which, honestly, fits.
Because how the hell is it still the same day?
Dane punched Finn.
Luc held me while I broke.
My dad told me he loves me.
Just like Finn did.
And it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hit me this hard after what he did, but it does.
Because somewhere deep inside, I’m still seventeen and spinning on top of a mountain, so in love with a guy who wouldn’t stop teasing me, even when the world was about to tilt, and now, here I am, lying flat on my back, staring at acrooked picture of lavender and wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with everything I’m feeling.
I close my eyes, breathe in.
Lavender and laundry detergent.
Breathe out.
Just air.
But it still aches, and my brain won’t shut up. It’s eight in the evening, and I’m wrecked. I should be passed out by now. Iwantto be, my whole body feels hollowed out, like I’ve been scraped raw and filled with static, but sleep, or even calm, won’t come.
Today was just too much, but honestly, I think it would’ve been way worse if Élise hadn’t taken me to her therapist. She even came into the room with me when I hesitated to go in alone, then just sat there quietly and held my hand. I didn’t want her there at first, didn’t want anyone hearing the mess in my head, but then we got there, and my chest started to close up, and suddenly her hand was the only thing keeping me tethered.
She didn’t flinch at anything I said or let go of my hand, not even once, and the therapist, God, she wasso nice. She spoke English just as well as Élise and Luc do, and she had that kind of presence that makes it feel okay to breathe again.
We didn’t get to everything, of course, not even close. One hour couldn’t undo the pile of shit I’ve buried over the years, but for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to hide my pain.
She gave me medication, just a starter dose, nothing heavy, but enough to maybe help. She said it’s okay to use painkillers responsibly, that being in pain all the time isn’t strength, it’s survival mode, and that I deserve more than that.
I checked, and both the now-stronger painkillers frommy broken fingers and the antidepressants won’t trigger the doping screens, so I’m okay with taking them for a while.
We’re going to do video sessions three times a week for now, but she said we’ll cut back when I start feeling stronger.
When, notif. That mattered.
What stuck with me the most, though, is that she told me to give Dane my promise when I told her about it.
She said sometimes, when things are really bad and someone is standing too close to the edge, therapists make what they call a safety contract. It’s not legally binding, and it’s not magic, but it’s a promise, a commitment to stay. To survive the night, the week, the month, and to call for help when the dark closes in. It’s something to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping.
My promise to Dane could act the same way—be a vow to give life a real shot. To try surgery, keep showing up to therapy, take the medications, and talk, let people in, even when it hurts,especiallywhen it hurts.
