Inside, the front desk is straight ahead with a clipboard on the counter and a small sign that says Sign In. I write my name, the time, and check the box markedNew Patient, my handwriting smaller and neater than usual because my hands don’t feel steady. The receptionist takes the clipboard back and tells me to have a seat.
I choose a chair along the wall and set my purse on my lap, wrapping one arm around it without really thinking about it. A guy across from me scrolls on his phone with the volume turned up just enough to be irritating. Someone coughs behind me. A clock ticks on the wall. The waiting makes my nerves crawl.
My phone buzzes. It’s Bella, sending a picture of baby Jax with something purple smeared across his face.
Me: What the hell is all over his face?
Bella:
I laugh quietly, the sound surprising me, and some of the tension eases out of my shoulders.
“Brooke?”
I look up to find a woman standing in the doorway holding a tablet.
“That’s me.”
“Come on back,” she says. “I’m Dr. Palmer.”
I follow her down the short hallway, my steps a little stiff, like my body’s bracing for something even though my brain knows I’m safe. The office opens into a small, comfortable space. A couch sits against one wall with two cushioned chairs facing it, a low coffee table between them. Framed art hangs neatly on the walls, nothing flashy, just soft colors and simple shapes. Quiet music plays somewhere in the background, low enough that I don’t notice it until I actually stop moving. The room smells clean and faintly pleasant, the kind of neutral that doesn’t demand attention.
“Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable,” she says.
I choose the couch and sit near the armrest, setting my purse beside me instead of on the floor like I usually would. My knee still starts bouncing almost immediately. My hands twist together in my lap, fingers pressing into each other like they’retrying to burn off nervous energy. My throat tightens. My palms feel warm.
Dr. Palmer sits across from me and looks up from her tablet, her expression open and calm. “So,” she says, “what brings you in today?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I swallow, my chest rising too fast, and try again. “I’m not really sure how to start,” I admit, my fingers tightening together in my lap.
“That’s okay,” Dr. Palmer says easily. “You don’t have to get it right. Just start wherever feels least uncomfortable.”
I let out half a laugh. “That’s a weird way to sell it.”
Her mouth tips into a small smile. “Most honest things are.”
I glance down at my hands. “I went on a date,” I say finally. “It didn’t go well.”
Dr. Palmer nods gently. “In what way?”
“He didn’t listen,” I say, the words coming out flatter than I expect. “I told him no, more than once, but he kept pushing.”
Her pen stills against the tablet. “Were you hurt?”
“No,” I answer quickly, then slow myself down, forcing myself to be honest instead of defensive. “Not like that. I wasn’t sexually hurt I mean. I got out of there before it went that far.”
She watches my face carefully. “But you were hurt.”
I swallow and my chest tightens. “Yeah. I got a few bruises, nothing serious.” I hesitate, my fingers twisting tighter together. “It’s not my body that feels messed up. It’s everything else.”
“Tell me about that,” she says softly.
“My head feels scrambled,” I admit. “My trust in people and the world. It’s like it all shifted overnight. I’m walking around fine on the outside, but inside I feel… off. Like something broke and I don’t know how to put it back together yet.”
Her voice stays steady. “That sounds really disorienting.”
“It is,” I say quietly. “I’m fine, technically. But my spirit feels cracked. I don’t feel safe the way I used to.”
She lets that sit between us for a moment, giving it space to breathe. My shoulders creep up toward my ears without my permission.
