Dr. Jenkins—my therapist—diagnosed me with persistent depressive disorder three years ago. Back then, before fluoxetine, I wouldn’t have had the strength to change my shirt without her and my family. Finding the right medication was a long, messy process. I had to try so many, waiting months between each attempt. Almost two years ago, we finally found what worked. I can’t take anti-anxiety meds anymore, not with the risk of extra side effects, but things are better now.
Therapy is better, too. I’ve found some balance. I can sleep. Panic attacks are less frequent. At my last session, Dr. Jenkins even said he’s considering tapering me off medication, but the idea terrifies me.
What if everything goes back to the way it was? He says I’m on the road to recovery, that I haven’t relapsed—but what if I’m only stable because of the pills? What if none of it is real?
Everyone already knows my story. Nova’s mother told the neighborhood after I moved here. They all see me as broken. As dangerous. After Seth cried about the punch I gave him, people started whispering that I was a monster.
I regret being violent that day, but Seth had shoved Nova, and I couldn’t let him hurt her.
No one believed me when I tried to explain. Teachers thought I provoked classmates, thought my panic attacks were just excuses. As if it’s normal to bully someone because he goes to therapy, talks to animals, or sings to flowers.
I know people think I’m a bad influence, that I’m just a gray cloud threatening to snuff out Nova’s light. But I’m not. I couldn’t forgive myself if I dimmed her smile.
She’s the brightest part of me. She has the same fears I do, but she never lets them drown her. She doesn’t need medication to balance her emotions or to keep thoughts of suicide away.
I love her smile, and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it. Since I met her and Steven, something in me has shifted.
Every day I think about what Chris told me when I confessed I was scared of slipping back into the darkness:
“Medication isn’t meant to make you happy, kiddo. It’s there to support you while you fight for happiness on your own. Everyone deserves to be happy, but the world is cruel. The pills are your armor, but you’re the one fighting the war. And you’ll survive, because you’re stronger than you think. You’re a warrior.”
Nova moves, and I blink back to the present. She’s shifted around completely, propping her chin and hands on my chest. Her skin feels warm through the thin fabric of my Green Day T-shirt.
I raise an eyebrow, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks. “What?”
I lace my arms behind my head like a pillow. She giggles and rolls to lie beside me on the grass, resting on her side. I can feel her big doe eyes studying me.
“You weren’t even listening. I thoughtIwas the one with my head in the clouds,” she whispers.
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
I turn onto my side to face her, and she slides closer, draping one leg over mine. Giggling, she adjusts her white skirt so it doesn’t ride too far up her thighs. “We’re written in the stars.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“We’re written in the stars,” she whispers.
I chuckle and copy her tone. “How so? And why are we whispering?”
Nova bursts into laughter, showing the tiny gap in her upper teeth that I adore. When she stops, she smirks playfully.
“I whisper because my secret is a super duper top-secret secret. Why are you whispering?” She keeps whispering.
I notice her struggling to prop her head with her hand, so I sit up, slip my arm under her, and lie back down. She rests her head on me, tracing a tiny heart on my skin with her finger.
“I whisper because you’re whispering,” I answer.
She smiles, then repeats, “We’re written in the stars.”
I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Today in physics class, Mr. Duncan told us a supernova exploded in the Sagittarius constellation on March fifteenth!”
Her excitement makes me smile. She’s always so enthusiastic.
“Did you hear? A supernova! In Sagittarius! We’re written in the stars!”
“How arewewritten in the stars?” I ask.
