He just held her tighter.
She felt something wet hit her temple— and realized he was crying too.
His chest heaved with the weight of her pain. His arms around her didn’t loosen, not even for a second.
They stayed like that for hours. Curled into each other in the darkness.
He didn’t let her go.
Not once.
Not even when the sun rose and her alarm buzzed for her 8am class.
Not even when she tried to apologize for everything again.
He just pulled her sweatshirt over her head, handed her her sneakers, and quietly said, “You’re not going to class today.”
She looked at him, confused. “Then where are we going?”
He looked her dead in the eye. Calm. Certain.
“To health services,” he said. “You’re gonna talk to someone. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
She didn’t speak. Didn’t argue.
For the first time in weeks— maybe months— Ali didn’t feel afraid of what came next.
Because he wasn’t walking away.
He was walking her toward healing.
The waiting room smelled like hand sanitizer and stale coffee.
Ali sat stiffly in the oversized chair, her palms damp, fingers twisting the hem of her sweatshirt sleeves. Dylan hadn’t let go of her hand since they walked in. Not when he signed her in. Not when she sat down. Not even now, as her knee bounced involuntarily and her throat tightened with every passing second.
She felt like everyone could see straight through her.
The girl who couldn’t handle life. The girl who needed help. The girl who sliced her wrist open and then pretended like everything was fine.
Dylan leaned over and whispered, “You’re doing so good, Al. I’m so proud of you.”
Her chest ached at the sound of his voice— so warm, so solid, like he meant every word.
The nurse called her name and everything in her wanted to bolt. Her feet felt nailed to the floor, her breath coming too fast. But Dylan stood, gently tugging her up with him, steady and unflinching.
“I’ll be right here when you come out,” he promised, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Every step. Okay?”
She nodded. Or maybe she just blinked. It was hard to tell.
The psychiatrist's office was smaller than she expected, cozy even. A worn blue couch sat across from a desk with too many sticky notes. There was a tissue box in every corner. A soft lamp in place of harsh fluorescent lights.
“Hi, Alison,” the woman said kindly. “I’m Dr. Stephenson. Come on in and make yourself comfortable, wherever feels safest for you.”
Ali hesitated, then lowered herself onto the edge of the couch. She kept her arms crossed tightly over her middle, unsure of what to do with the weight of her own body in this space.
“Um, it’s just Ali.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ali.’
