I almost forget the painting leaning against the wall, until I spot it by the door where I left it earlier. I grab it carefully.
I want to bring it to the salon and hang it up.
Outside, the day is bright and warm. I slide into the driver’s seat andstart the car. My phone connects automatically to my playlist, and “Perfectly Broken”by BANNERS begins to play through the speakers. The rawness in his voice feels like it’s pulling something out of me I’ve tried to shove back in.
I let it play, my fingers gripping the steering wheel. I try to relax—inhale through my nose, exhale slowly—and tell myself to stop worrying about everything. Just breathe. One thing at a time.
I turn the volume up and let the music drown the noise in my head for a moment longer.
The office is tucked inside a quiet brick building downtown, cozy and unintimidating. I step inside and the receptionist greets me with a kind smile. I murmur my name and take a seat, tapping my fingers against the armrest to keep my hands busy.
After a few minutes, a beautiful older woman appears in the doorway. She has kind eyes, silver-streaked hair, and a presence that instantly settles the tightness in my chest.
“Camille?” she says.
I stand, brushing my palms against my dress. “That’s me.”
She smiles gently. “I’m Miranda. Come on in.”
Her room is sunlit and serene, filled with warm tones and the subtle scent of herbal tea. I sink into the armchair across from hers, still unsure where to begin.
We talk for a while—about how I’ve been sleeping, about stress. We talk about everything with my parents, my family and Sean.
She’s good at drawing things out slowly, patiently.
And then, it slips out.
“Sean,” I say, staring down at my hands.
“He… he overdosed. He’s in a coma.”
Miranda doesn’t flinch. “That must feel so heavy.”
I nod,blinking back the pressure in my eyes. “I just keep thinking… What if I hadn’t given up on him? What if I had stayed, helped more? Maybe he wouldn’t be in this position right now.”
“It sounds like you gave everything you had,” she says gently. “Didn’t you? That’s why you stayed as long as you did, because you thought you could save him?”
I nod again, harder this time. “I did. I really thought I could, I gave him so many chances to. I lost myself trying to save him. I kept thinking of the fun, loving person he used to be. We used to have so much fun. He worked away so whenever he came back it was like a little holiday together. Then the drugs came. He changed. I thought I could save him for a long time. I really tried. But then, I gave up. And look where he is now.”
There’s a silence, but it’s not empty. Miranda lets it hold us both for a moment.
“I feel guilty,” I whisper. “Because even now, after everything that’s happened to him… I know I’m not in love with him anymore but I still care. I hate that this—his overdose, the coma—it’s bringing him back into my life. I’m just so angry at him for doing this to himself. For dragging me back into the mess I finally escaped. Then I feel guilty that maybe it’s my fault for not being there for him.”
I pause, pressing my fingers to my eyes.
“I was relieved when I walked away. I finally felt free. But now? I just feel sick. Guilty. Like I don’t have the right to be angry at him or feel happy about everything going on in my life while he’s lying in a hospital bed, maybe dying.”
Miranda leans forward slightly. “Camille, if he doesn’t make it out of this, then that’s another hurdle we will get past but there’s no use hurting yourself before you know the result.
You need to let go of your guilt. You tried. You showed up. You stayed long after your heart broke. But healing doesn’t mean draggingsomeone uphill when they won’t walk beside you.”
She pauses, her voice soft but steady. “You are not responsible for his choices. You cannot set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.”
I swallow hard. Her words hit something deep.
“You were never right for one another,” she continues. “And that doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you human. You loved him. You hoped. But you deserve more than surviving a relationship—you deserve peace, and joy, and to feel safe.”
I nod slowly, and then—because it’s there, beneath the surface—I whisper, “There’s actually someone else. Lucas.”
