“I don’t want Elliot to need me to survive,” I said. “I want him to choose me because he’s alive. Because he wants to be.”
Mark was quiet for a moment. “And do you feel ready to try again?”
The question landed heavy—but it didn’t crush me.
“Yes,” I replied. Not rushed. Not desperate. “Not because I’m healed. But because I finally know where the line is.”
“What line?”
“The one between support and control,” I confirmed. “Between love and consumption.”
I swallowed.
“I know now that if I stay,” I went on, “I don’t get to disappear when it scares me. I don’t get to decide what he needs. I don’t get to make his pain about my fear.” My voice steadied. “I stay. I listen. I let him be whole—even when that means I’m not the center of his world.”
Mark smiled, just slightly. “And if it hurts?”
I nodded. “Then I hurt without running.”
The words felt terrifying.
They also felt true.
I left Mark’s office feeling flayed open. Not lighter. Not fixed. Just… exposed in a way that made every sound too sharp, every thought too loud.
The afternoon hung low and gray, the sky pressing down like a held breath. I stood on the pavement longer than necessary, hands shoved into my jacket pockets, grounding myself the way Mark had taught me. Feel the concrete. Name the cold. Breathe through it.
My phone sat heavy against my thigh. Silent. Not accusing. Just there.
Mark hadn’t told me I was better. He hadn’t offered absolution or a way back to how things were. But he had lifted the boundary. The one that said silence was the only safe option.
You’re allowed to speak to him again,he’d said.Carefully. Without rescuing. Without disappearing into him.
The relief didn’t come like a wave. It came like a lock easing. A slow, cautious release in my chest I hadn’t realized I was bracing against. I could say Elliot’s name again. I could ask how he was and not feel like I was doing something wrong just by wanting to know.
That scared me almost as much as it steadied me.
I stayed there a moment longer, breathing in the cold air, letting it burn my lungs clean. This wasn’t a victory. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was a narrow bridge—and I would have to cross it without turning it into a lifeline for either of us.
I didn’t take my phone out. But for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend I didn’t miss him. Hands shoved into my jacket pockets, grounding myself the way Mark had taught me.
Name five things you can see.
The cracked concrete. A leaf pinned to the curb. A woman tying her shoe. My own boots. The smear of cloud overhead.
Stay.That word followed me to the truck. I didn’t go home. I drove to the site instead.
The build was already alive when I pulled up. The clatter of tools, the low rumble of voices, the smell of sawdust and damp earth. Familiar. Honest. Work that made sense because it asked for your hands, not your heart.
Thomas was near the scaffolding, clipboard tucked under one arm, hard hat crooked like he’d put it on mid-thought. He looked up when he saw me, and his face shifted from serious to surprised.
“Therapy?” he asked.
I nodded once.
“That bad?”
I considered lying. Then remembered why I was here. “Yeah,” I said. “But… necessary.”
