I didn’t have wine. I wasn’t dreaming.
And yet here I am.
The balcony table has been moved—pushed up against the railing like a step stool. The chair is angled strangely, pulled far back against the wall.
I stare at it, throat dry. I didn’t move that table. I’m certain of it.
The sliding door behind me rattles open, making me jump. Jack stands there, backlit by the warm glow of the apartment, looking more annoyed than alarmed.
“Jesus, Ellie.” He steps onto the balcony barefoot, wearing sweatpants and an old Columbia Law sweatshirt. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. He moves toward me, taking off his sweatshirt and draping it over my shoulders like I’m a child.
“You’re freezing.” He rubs my arms briskly, guiding me back toward the open door. “You had another episode, didn’t you?”
“No—” My voice comes out hoarse, rough with cold and confusion. “I don’t—I didn’t—”
“Come on.” His tone shifts, low and pitying. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m broken.
Like I’m the problem.
He steers me inside, closing the balcony door behind us. The warmth of the apartment feels suffocating.
“I told you this would happen,” Jack says as he leads me to the couch. He crouches in front of me, smoothing hair back from my face with a careful hand. “You’re under too much pressure. Work. All the sleepwalking and late nights. It’s too much for you, El.”
I stare past him, back at the balcony, at the table pushed tothe railing, the chair shoved back awkwardly.
I didn’t move them. I didn’t climb up there. Someone moved them. Someone wanted them like that.
“Maybe you should call your therapist in the morning,” Jack says gently. “Maybe you should go back on something. Just for a little while. Until you feel more like yourself again.”
I nod, but my skin is crawling. Not from the cold anymore. From something worse.
Jack thinks he’s winning. He thinks he’s got me convinced that my mind is turning against me.
But he’s wrong.
Later that afternoon Dr. Miriam Kessler sits across from me in a cream armchair, her legs crossed elegantly, a leather notebook balanced on one knee. She’s beautiful in that polished, clinical way—tailored navy slacks, crisp white blouse, not a hair out of place. Even her smile feels rehearsed.
“The best in Manhattan,”Jack had promised me, pressing the business card into my hand with the quiet urgency of someone offering a lifeline.
“You'll love her. She understands complicated things.”
Complicated things.
Like psychotic breaks. Like neglect. Like being gaslit until you don’t know which way is up.
I smooth my palms over my jeans and clear my throat. “I’m not sure where to start.”
Dr. Kessler smiles encouragingly. “Start anywhere you like, Ellie. There’s no wrong place to begin.”
I stare at the pristine surface of her desk, at the gleaming crystal paperweight that pins down a stack of empty notecards.I pick a thread on my shirt carefully.
“I woke up outside on my balcony the other night,” I say. “I don’t remember going out there. I was barefoot. Freezing.”
Dr. Kessler nods, jotting something down. “Sleepwalking episodes can be common during periods of extreme stress.”
I hesitate. “Yes. But...”
