I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
The scar along my collarbone throbs—phantom pain from a wound that's long healed but apparently not forgotten.A jagged line that cuts across my skin from where the glass found its mark, a permanent reminder of how close I came to losing everything.
"That's the third time this week."Her voice carries that careful tone people use when they're trying not to sound worried but absolutely are.
"I know."The words come out hoarse."I'm sorry I woke you again."
"Nor," she shakes her head."Don't apologize.That's not how this works."She pauses, studying my face in the dim light."What I meant was, they're getting worse and I think it's time you saw someone about it.When's the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
Not since the night of the accident,I think, but I don't say it out loud.
I push myself up against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest.The digital clock on my nightstand reads 3:33AM.
Of course.
Even my subconscious has a flair for the dramatic.
"Water?"Camilla asks, already reaching for the glass on my bedside table.
I take it gratefully, the cool liquid washing away the metallic taste that always lingers after the dreams.Camilla stays quiet while I drink, giving me space to breathe.
This is why I love her, she knows when to push and when to simply exist beside me.
"I thought I was getting better," I finally whisper.
"You are getting better.Healing isn't linear, remember?"
She's right.
I think I told her that, probably quoting some self-help article I'd read online while I was trying to convince myself things were getting better.
Then again, it's easier to offer wisdom than to accept it.
"Go back to sleep," I tell her."I'm okay now."
But Camilla doesn't move.
She studies my face in the dim light filtering through our thin curtains, reading me like one of the manuscripts I edit during the day.
"You know you don't have to carry this alone, right?"
"Cam—"
"I'm serious.There are people who specialize in this stuff.Professionals who actually know what they're doing instead of just your well-meaning best friend bringing you water at three in the morning."
I want to argue, to deflect with humor or change the subject entirely.But the words stick in my throat because she's right.
I can't literature-major my way out of PTSD.
"I'll think about it," I say instead.
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying, but she pats my arm gently anyway before padding back to her room.
I listen to her door click shut, then to the building settling around us.London never truly sleeps, even at this hour there's the distant hum of night buses and late-shift workers heading home.
I don't even try to go back to sleep.
Instead, I reach for the notebook I keep by my bed and start writing.The words spill out jagged and raw, everything I can't say out loud bleeding onto the page in messy handwriting.This is how I process now—through metaphors and fragmented sentences that somehow make more sense than real conversation.
