And even though he was as different from Lucy as a person could possibly be, he had been a fair replacement for her during the last two weeks. He didn’t offer the same immediate comfort she had. He didn’t feel familiar or safe in that instinctive way. But there was something else between us now. Something earned. Not the kind of trust that’s freely given. The kind that only forms after hours spent testing boundaries, dodging questions, resisting honesty. The kind that comes when someone keeps showing up anyway. Slowly, deliberately, he had broken down my confusion and defensiveness. Brick by brick. Session by session.
“Today is the big day,” Dr. Kahn continued when I didn’t answer right away. He offered me a small smile as he said it, and the words sent a ripple of nerves through my chest. “How are you feeling about leaving?”
I sighed, longer this time, and leaned back slightly in the chair. My mind, which, thankfully, had become easier to navigate, felt more organized than it had in weeks. Maybe months. The constant noise had quieted into something manageable. Not silent. Just… navigable.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Nervous, I guess.” He nodded, waiting. “It just… everything feels easier here,” I continued. “I don’t have to fight so hard to be in control.”
“An interesting thought,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Considering when you arrived, you felt the only control you had was through food.”
“I guess,” I shrugged. The word pulled me backward, back to my first day here.
Messy didn’t even begin to cover it. I was messy. Defensive. Angry. I was certain that I was fine and furious that anyone suggested otherwise. I thought I was in control. The truth was, I was completely out of it. I couldn’t see that then. I couldn’t see much of anything. But day by day, session by session, confession by confession, my vision had started to return. And I didn’t like what I saw when it did.
“What are you nervous about?” Dr. Kahn asked. The question landed softly, but it still sent a tight ache through my stomach.
“I guess it’s obvious,” I said, even though we both knew that wasn’t going to let me off the hook.
“Maybe,” he replied calmly. “But go ahead and tell me anyway.”
“I think I’m scared of spiraling again,” I said quickly, like if I didn’t say it all at once, I might lose the nerve. “It’s like… when I’m here, on the sand instead of in the water, I forget how easy it is to be pulled under.” He didn’t interrupt. “It’s like Iblink,” I continued, my voice quieter now, “and suddenly I can’t breathe. And I don’t even realize I’m drowning until it’s already happening. I didn’t know I was in the water until I couldn’t keep my head above it.”
Dr. Kahn nodded slowly. “That awareness,” he said, “is new.”
I frowned slightly. “It doesn’t feel new. It feels… scary.”
“Both can be true,” he said. “You’re not afraid because you’re weak, Blair. You’re afraid because now you know what it looks like when things start to slip.” I shifted in my seat, folding my hands together.
“What if I notice it and still can’t stop it?” I asked. “What if knowing doesn’t change anything?”
“That’s the fear,” he agreed. “But knowledge gives you options. It gives you time. You didn’t have that before.”
I thought about Austin. About the car. About the building I’d recognized before I wanted to. About the moment when someone else had stepped in because I couldn’t.
“I don’t want to need someone to drag me out every time,” I said quietly.
“And you won’t,” Dr. Kahn said. “But recovery isn’t about never struggling again. It’s about knowing when to ask for help before you’re underwater.” I stared at the rug again, following the loops. “And do you remember what we decided to do when you feel like that?” Dr. Kahn asked gently. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me. Something steady. Something that made me believe in myself, even when I wasn’t sure I fully did yet.
“Ask for help,” I said, repeating the words we had gone over for hours during the last two weeks. “Ask for help as soon as I feel like the water is rising.”
“Exactly, Blair.” He nodded. “Asking for help when you’re overwhelmed is the best thing you can do. I know we’ve talked about this, but there will be times in your life when everything you thought you knew to be true suddenly shifts. Do you remember what we talked about for moments like that?”
I took a slow breath through my nose and nodded, his words from earlier sessions rising clearly in my mind. “Find the anchor.”
“Good,” he said. “And what’s your anchor, Blair?”
I smiled faintly, remembering the moment the realization finally settled into place. “That I always have control over my reactions,” I said. “Even when it feels like I don’t. I do.”
That realization had come the day I finally told Dr. Kahn about my obsession with fate. I hadn’t expected him to understand. No one else ever really had. People liked to say they did, but I could always see it in their eyes—the polite distance, the confusion. Fate mattered to me in a way it didn’t seem to matter to anyone else. Dr. Kahn hadn’t looked startled or dismissive. He hadn’t looked impressed either. He’d simply listened. He told me my dependence on fate was understandable. That it was common for people who had experienced trauma to hand control over to something larger than themselves. He said it made sense to look for structure when life had proven itself chaotic.
“So I was right?” I asked him then, blinking through tears. “None of it is real? Fate is just make-believe, right?”
He sighed softly and shook his head. “I can’t tell you what to believe in, Blair. Many people believe in fate. But sometimesbelief becomes a crutch if you let it. Trauma can push people to externalize control—to imagine something else pulling the strings. Religion can function the same way. It isn’t wrong to believe in. But when belief replaces agency, it can become harmful.”
“But… it scares me,” I whispered.
“What does?” he asked.
“Knowing there’s no plan,” I said quietly, the truth landing as I spoke it. “If there’s no plan, how do I know things will be okay?”
