"I know. That's why you're here. That's why we're going to keep meeting until you learn." Dr. Senna smiled, warm and genuine. "You're making progress. Six weeks ago, you couldn't even admit there was a problem. Now you're talking about the core trauma. That's a significant movement."
Progress felt like standing in rubble and calling it architecture.But maybe that's how healing worked—small reconstructions, one conversation at a time.
"There's a survivors' support group," Dr. Senna continued. "Dana and Jalina attend. Several other Liberty crew members. It meets weekly, informal discussions about processing displacement trauma and building new lives here. I think it might help to talk with others who understand what you went through."
My immediate instinct was to refuse. Support groups meant vulnerability, meant exposing my damage to people who might need me to be strong.
But Dr. Senna was right about one thing—I was tired of being strong alone.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"That's all I ask. Think about it. Consider that you don't have to carry this alone." She checked the time. "We're almost at the end of our session. How are you feeling?"
How was I feeling? Exhausted. Raw. Like someone had performed surgery on my psyche without anesthesia. But also, lighter. Like maybe the weight I'd been carrying wasn't quite as crushing as it had been when I walked in.
"Tired," I said honestly. "But okay."
"Good. That's good. Healing is exhausting work." Dr. Senna stood, signaling the end of the session with practiced grace. "Same time next week?"
"Yeah. Same time."
I left her office and stepped into Mothership's corridor, the transition from soft Earth-lighting to utilitarian alien efficiency jarring as always. Crew members moved pastZandovians, humans, a few species I still couldn't properly identify. A mobile city functioning around me while I tried to function within myself.
My comm unit chimed. Message from Jalina:Dinner tonight? All the bonded couples are getting together. You should come. Dana's making Er'dox try human food and the entertainment value alone is worth it.
I stared at the message, finger hovering over the decline button. Dinner with the happy couples, Dana and Er'dox, Jalina and Zor'go, all of them radiating contentment that made my isolation feel sharper by comparison.
But Dr. Senna's voice echoed:You're allowed happiness. You're allowed to build connections.
What time?I sent back before I could change my mind.
Jalina's response came immediately:1900 hours. Deck 12 common area. Bring yourself and no excuses.
I pocketed my comm unit and headed toward the medical bay. Still had four hours until dinner, which meant time to check on current patients, review lab results, lose myself in work that made sense when nothing else did.
The medical bay was quiet when I arrived, just two occupants in the recovery area, both stable, both sleeping. The monitoring systems hummed with gentle efficiency, tracking vitals across species barriers with technology that still amazed me after three months.
Zorn was at the main workstation, reviewing something on a holographic display. His deep forest-green skin caught the overhead lighting, gold healing markings tracing patterns across broad shoulders. He looked up when I entered, andsomething in his expression shifted, wariness mixing with hope.
We'd been walking on eggshells around each other since the commendation ceremony last week. Since I'd admitted therapy was hard. Since he'd offered to walk me to my quarters and we'd almost-but-not-quite acknowledged the complicated thing building between us.
"Bea." His voice was professionally neutral, but his golden-brown eyes held more. "Everything alright?"
"Fine. Just checking in before dinner." I moved to the monitoring station, pulled up patient files with practiced efficiency. "How's the Veridian Station crew member? The respiratory infection case?"
"Responding well to the antibiotic protocol. Should be cleared for discharge tomorrow." He hesitated, then added, "You attended your therapy session today."
It wasn't a question, but the observation hung there waiting for response.
"Yes. I attended." I kept my focus on the display, watching numbers scroll past that meant life, meant healing, meant measurable progress in ways therapy never could. "Dr. Senna thinks I should join the survivors' support group. Apparently talking about trauma with other traumatized people is therapeutic."
"Is it?"
"I don't know. Haven't tried it yet."
Silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but weighted with things we weren't saying. With feelings wecouldn't quite acknowledge. With professional boundaries blurring into something more complex.
"Dana mentioned they're having dinner tonight," Zorn said carefully. "The bonded couples. She invited me. Said you might be there."
