That she put me back together and showed me what safe love feels like.
I should’ve told her that every song I’ve written is about her—that she’s always been my only muse, the reason I even know what the sweetest melody sounds like.
But my feelings make me feel like a traitor, a shitty friend. Still—fuck—it was me she saw first. I know she did. And I threw it all away.
It hurts like hell to see her with my best friend, even though I left precisely so Steven could make a move on her. I made a shitty choice, and now I have to pay for it.
Besides, Nova and I were never going to have a happy ending.
I glance down at the paper and realize I’ve sketched the purple outline of her face. Yes, I regret leaving. Yes, I still feel exactly what I felt at eighteen. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. Trying to forget Nova Marshall is like making a pact with death and hoping to survive: impossible.
“Yes. I’m sure of that. I’ve forgotten her. It’s over. I’m over it,” I lie, tearing the drawing into shreds.
Dr. Jenkins clears his throat. “So you believe that if Nova doesn’t show anger, it’s because she doesn’t care?”
“Not exactly. It’s not just her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Steven and my parents too. Steven didn’t get angry with me, even though I abandoned him and only came back now, when things are worse than I thought. Steven gets angry at everyone—but never me? I’m sick of being under glass. I want to pay for my mistakes. And my parents...” I sigh, letting the shredded paper scatter across the desk.
“I think your family loves you. And the same goes for your friends. You don’t deserve cruelty. You don’t have to pay for mistakes. You’re not a bad person, Vincent. You just made choices that you regret. That doesn’t make you unworthy of kindness.”
I cross my arms and lean back. “No? You only talk to me because you’re paid to.”
He smiles. “Right. And do your parents get paid to love you?”
No, but maybe they should. All I do is complicate their lives.
I shake my head, and he presses on. “What about Nova? Does she get paid to be your friend?”
I shake my head but I’m tired of his questions. I sigh and slump against the desk, hiding my face in my arms.
I’m tired. Sad. And I don’t even know why. I just want to go home, crawl into bed, close my eyes, and never wake up. I feel so useless.
I gave up my dream to come back to the people I love most, and I can’t even give them what they deserve: honesty, or even just my presence.
I can’t find the strength to accept my parents’ help or go back to Cornish College, to find a decent job and stop depending on them.
I just want to play guitar and write. Write until I can’t move my hand anymore. She’s all I think about. She’s at the center of my thoughts, my inspiration, my everything.
Dr. Jenkins opens his mouth to say something else, but the clock chimes. The session is over.
I get up quickly, snatching my backpack from the floor.
“Well, I guess it’s time. I don’t want to take up the next patient’s slot,” I mutter, striding toward the door. At the threshold, I pause and sigh. “Thank you.”
I don’t stay long enough to hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “You don’t have to thank me.” I’ve already closed the door and headed for the clinic’s exit, where my father is waiting in the car.
When I climb in, I toss my backpack at my feet and lean back against the seat.
My father, Daniel, smiles, setting his phone aside. “Hi, honey-bee. How’d it go?”
I shrug, as always. He leans in, kisses my hair, then hands me the water bottle I left in the car this morning.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I rummage through my backpack for my pills. It’s 10:30—time.
