“And by doing that, you’re speaking like she’s already gone,” she says. “As if she hasn’t told you directly that she loves you. That she chooses you. That she would again.”
The memory hits warm and brutal at once. The way her voice trembled when she said last night was worth everything.
“She did choose me,” I say quietly.
“She did,” Dr. Shah agrees. “So, this is not a story of you destroying her life. It is a story of two people trying to love each other in a system designed to punish honesty.”
“It sounds nicer.”
“It sounds accurate,” she says. “And accuracy challenges your belief that you are dangerous simply for feeling.”
“You said the danger was pretending not to feel.”
“And today proved that again. What caused harm wasn’t the truth you spoke—it was the months spent denying it while both of you were quietly breaking under the weight of the lie.”
The exhaustion finally drags me into the chair. My body sinks, drained.
“I’m not dangerous because I love her,” I mutter. “I’m dangerous when I lie about it. Great. Still doesn’t tell me what to do with my hands right now.”
“That’s the next part,” she says softly. “Right now, your body wants to act. To fix. To storm the arena. To protect her. If you obey that impulse, you make everything worse.”
“I know.”
“Your job is to hold the line,” she says. “To keep from adding lightning to an already dangerous storm.”
“That feels impossible.”
“Difficult,” she corrects. “Not impossible. This is a different kind of bravery. Not action. Stillness. Feeling everything without breaking yourself to stop it.”
Images of Alycia flood in—her in my doorway that morning, eyes shining, whispering that last night was worth everything. That she’d still choose me.
“I want to try,” I say hoarsely. “For her.”
“Good.” A hint of warmth touches her face. “Then small steps. No big decisions today. No surprise interviews. No showing up at the arena. No dramatic self-sacrificing texts.”
A breath leaves me, almost a laugh. “You really do know me.”
“I do.” She lifts a finger. “Step one: every time you feel the urge to fix, pause. Name what your body is doing. Out loud or on paper.”
I grimace. “So… journaling.”
“Giving your fear somewhere to go that doesn’t involve setting more fires,” she corrects. “You told me once that at home, you joke one step ahead, so no one sees the parts you don’t want to face. You’re doing that here—trying to outrun fear with action. I’m asking you to let it walk beside you instead.”
“Horrible idea,” I mutter.
“Uncomfortable,” she agrees. “And necessary.”
“And Alycia?” I ask quietly. “What if she decides she’s done?”
Her face softens. “Then you will hurt. Your chest will ache, your thoughts will spiral, your stomach will knot. None of that pain will mean you deserved it or caused it. It will mean she made the choice she needed. And you will survive it.”
My gaze drops. “I don’t know how to let someonechoose themselves and still believe they’re choosing me, too.”
“That’s because the last time you wanted something you couldn’t keep, you were a boy being told to stay in line,” she says gently. “You’re not that boy now. You’re a man in a mutual relationship with a woman who loves you. Her choosing her dignity is not a rejection. It’s proof of the kind of love you share.”
My eyes sting. I swallow hard. “Last night, she said if the world tears her apart, if PR makes her a villain… she’d still choose me.” The words wobble. “It shut the noise off inside me. Just for a second.”
“Anchor to that,” she says. “The storm outside is loud. That truth isn’t going anywhere.”
