He lets out a short chuckle.
“No. No meetings. How are you, Cecily?”
I look down, noticing the way my right foot won’t stay still. “Today was my first therapy session,” I say, my voice small.
He hums a low, thoughtful sound that somehow reaches me through the line. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
“Maybe later,” I say after a moment. “Tell me about your day instead—or your work. Anything you want to share.”
There’s a pause, followed by a hint of laughter in his tone. “Well... mynonna—my grandmother—she’s eighty and stubborn as ever, decided last weekend she had to climb the apple tree behind the house because, apparently, store-bought apples are‘soulless.’”
I actually laugh. It bursts out of me before I can stop it. And just like that, the pressure in my chest starts to give.
He keeps talking, sharing small, ordinary stories—about his grandmother, about a recipe that went wrong. I listen. I ask questions. I laugh again.
And the longer I hear his voice, the easier it becomes to breathe. It’s not something I can explain... only that it feels like warmth spreading from the inside out, melting something frozen in me.
I tilt my head back, looking up at the sky. Pale blue and cold, the sun shining without much heat. But it’s enough.
Because today isn’t just another day I survived. It feels like the beginning of something new.
And maybe… just maybe, the best chapters of my life are still waiting to be written.
