I’m ready to search for myself. I’m ready to fly. I want to feel alive.
-*?? . ??? ? ?.-*??
“Nova, how are you today?”
I roll a small rubber ball across Dr. Wright’s desk. “Honestly? I don’t know.” It’s the first time I haven’t answered withI’m fine.
She nods, scribbling something in her notebook. “Did something happen?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just... miss Vincent. We still can’t find Asher, and I feel like a terrible sister. And Maggie—something’s off with her. She’s acting strange. Everything feels... complicated. Like I can’t find the right thread to pull.”
“And?”
“How do you know there’s something else?”
She smiles. “I just assumed, and you confirmed it, Nova.”
I let out a long breath. “I’ve never told anyone this, but it’s a fear that never leaves me. It’s about Vincent,” I confess.
Dr. Wright nods, lifting her eyes from her notebook just long enough to give me a small, encouraging smile before she goes back to writing. I take it as permission to continue, and the words start spilling out—the things that have haunted me since high school.
“My father forced my mother to keep me when she got pregnant, and that’s how I was born. She never wanted me, and I can’t really blame her. Because of me, her parents disowned her, she sank into postpartum depression, and she had to quit college. My father, meanwhile, was cheating on her constantly, pretending he was stuck working long, exhausting shifts. Then he’d show up with gifts and empty promises of change. Or, at least, that’s what my grandmother told me when I asked her if it was true that Dad had cheated on Mom because of me.”
“And why did you ask her that?” she asks softly.
“Because one night I heard Mom say it when she was fighting with him for coming home late... with lipstick all over his shirt,” I admit, my voice raw.
I can still see it as if it happened yesterday. I was eleven years old, standing in the hallway in my pajamas, holding Asher’s bottle because he wouldn’t stop crying. My little brother’s wails echoed through the house, sharp and piercing, and Mom’s voice rose right over them.
“You don’t even bother hiding it anymore!” she screamed, her hair wild, her face flushed with fury. She held up his crumpled shirt like evidence in a courtroom, the scarlet smears glowing against the white fabric. “You can’t even tell me you were working late when you come home stinking of perfume and with this—this trash all over you!”
Dad slammed the door shut behind him and muttered something about me being awake, but Mom didn’t care. Shewas past the point of whispers. “Do you think I don’t know you regret me? Regret us? You only forced me to keep Nova because you didn’t want to look like a coward. And now look where we are—look what you’ve done to me! You wanted that slut and now I’m the one who’s stuck with her!”
I froze in the hallway, clutching Asher tighter as if I could shield him from the storm. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure they could hear it over the shouting.
Dad’s voice was lower, but sharp, like a blade cutting through the air. “Don’t you dare bring her into this. She’s just a kid. You’re tormenting her enough!” my father snapped, voice tight.
“Enough?” my mother spat back, her face a savage thing I barely recognized. “She’s the reason my life fell apart! I wish she’d die. I wish I could strangle her with my own hands and make her disappear from my sight. Can’t you see she’s crazy? You couldn’t even give me a normal child! If it were up to me, I’d beat her to death. I’d rather go to prison than ever see that slut’s face again!”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I remember staring at the wall, at the cheap wallpaper peeling in the corner, trying not to make a sound.
And my mom’s words carved themselves into me, word for word, like a scar that never healed: She’s the reason my life fell apart.
I sigh. “What I know is that all of that scarred her deeply. But instead of dealing with it, she projected her pain onto me. I never knew if she actually hated me, or if she only hated my father and I was just the target she could reach. I don’t hate her, you know. I just wish her slaps would stop haunting my sleep every night. All I want is a little peace of mind. I hope she finds a little peace of mind someday. Because I’m not alone—but she is. I have my friends. I have Maggie, Sam, Will, Max, Aurora,even Holly. I have Steven... and Vincent. My Vincent. I have his family. I have Grandma, even if I only see her twice a year. I have people. I have a family. She has no one, and that makes me sad, because she’s still my mommy. Even if she broke me. Even if she stole my brother from me. Even if she stole my sleep. Someday, I hope she finds the strength to forgive me, the same way I’m still trying to find the strength to forgive her—for stealing my childhood, the way my dad once stole hers. When I met Vincent, she despised him instantly. Maybe it was because his parents are gay, maybe because he was adopted, or maybe just because he was in therapy. Whatever the reason, she never stopped repeating the same thing: that he was just like my father. That he’d use me, sleep with me, and then leave me. And even though I know he only pulled away to give Steven a chance with me, it doesn’t change the fact that a part of me is terrified she was right. Because I know Vincent’s not my father. I know he would never hurt me—not then, not now. I know that what he did hurt him, too. But I’m still afraid. Afraid that I’m not enough for him. Especially now, when his music career is about to take off. He’s opening on tour for an international pop star. I’m scared and I’m terrified. What if I’m just not enough for him? I feel so toxic. I hate being jealous and I want to get rid of this jealousy. I trust him. I trust him with my life. I just can’t get rid of my mom’s words.”
“I have an idea.”
My head lifts, suspicious. “What kind of idea?”
She slides a blank sheet of paper across the desk, then pushes a pencil case full of crayons and markers toward me. “Draw yourself. However you see yourself. And then, around that, write down everything that scares you—even the smallest, silliest fears. Monsters under the bed, dropping out of college, your brother, your parents, losing someone you love. Whatever feels true. Use any colors you want. Any size. This is your canvas.”
The page looks too white, too clean, too expectant. My chest tightens. “I’m not... I’m not very good at drawing.”
Her gaze softens. “It doesn’t have to be good. The important thing is that you draw your truth.”
Something in her tone—steady, unshakable—makes me nod. My fingers close around a purple crayon.Purple. My safe color. My favorite since I was little.
I press it to the page. At first, the lines are awkward, uncertain. But soon they sharpen into a shape I recognize: a tiny girl, barely more than a stick figure, right in the center of the paper. And then, around her, I start writing. Words. Fears. Scribbled fast and messy so I don’t have to think too much:failure, rejection, loneliness, Dad, not enough, losing Vincent, slut, sad Maggie, Asher, Mom, sad Vincent, hurt Vincent, losing Steven, slut, cancer, losing my friends, Seth, Rosie, San Francisco, slut, slut, slut, slut.
