“Gabe?”
I nod, unable to answer.
“I’m Dr. Keane,” she says. “Come through when you’re ready.”
I stand quickly, knees threatening to give out. My body feels like it’s trying to choose between running toward her or running out the front door.
Her office is bright. A big window, thin curtain, neutral walls. Two chairs angled toward each other with a small table between them. A box of tissues. A shelf of books. A bowl of smooth stones on the windowsill that I have the strange urge to grab and hold until my fingers stop tingling… or maybe throw them. I feel like such a mess on the inside right now.
I sit on the edge of the seat, shoulders tight, every muscle locked. My eyes keep flicking to the door—just knowing it’s there, that it’s an option, makes it easier to breathe.
Dr. Keane sits opposite me, a notebook resting closed on her knee.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please.” My voice wobbles, and I hate how terrified I sound.
She pours from a glass jug into a tumbler and sets it down within reach. The glass sweats against my palm when I pick it up, a tiny stream running over my knuckles as my hand shakes.
“We’ll go slow today,” she says. “You set the pace.”
I nod again, unsure what to say. She doesn’t rush me, letting the silence settle for a bit.
“What was it like coming here this morning?” she asks at last.
It’s such a weighted question. “Hard,” I rasp. The word isn’t enough to describe how I’ve felt this last week. It’s too small to encompass the depth of both relief and despair flowing through me every day. If it wasn’t for Noah, I think I’d already be lost to my own mind again. He’s the one constant thing in my day—the one person who knows everything and keeps turning up with warmth when my brain feels like a storm.
She nods but doesn’t fill the pause.
“I nearly didn’t come in,” I admit, watching the curtain move with the breeze. “I stood outside for a while. Thought about leaving.”
“What made you stay?”
“I promised myself I would.” I rub my hand over my mouth. “If I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t at all. And… I want to be here.”
“Sometimes the first session is just getting used to being here,” she says. “Knowing you can stop when you want. We can talk about what brings you here, or just see how it feels to stay.”
I let out a shaky breath. My ribs hurt from working so hard, but I nod. “I had…” I falter, grinding my teeth before continuing. “I had a bad morning. Last week.”
“Do you want to say more?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
I stare at the trembling surface of water in the glass. “I went running,” I say finally. “And I—” I swallow hard. “I ended up at the lake.”
She doesn’t react, doesn’t write anything down. Just listens.
“I don’t…” My throat closes, and I clear it before continuing. “I don’t really know what happened. I didn’t mean to go there, but—” I shut my eyes. The cold, the weight, the silence slam back into me so hard my chest jerks. “Then I was in the water. It was like I blinked and I was under.”
Her voice is level. “Did you want to hurt yourself?”
The question buries under my skin, leaving me feeling instantly exhausted.
I search myself for an answer and find fog. I didn’t want to hurt. I wanted the opposite—I wanted everything to stop hurting. My mind, the memories, the nonstop emotional overload of fighting my past. I wanted it all to go away, even if that meant I disappeared with it.
So, did I want to hurt myself? I don’t know. I just wanted to stop existing for a while. “I wanted the quiet,” I tell her, my voice breaking. “Just… quiet. My head wouldn’t stop, and I thought maybe—maybe if I just—” My hands flex helplessly. “I didn’tdecideto do it. I had no plans. I didn’t feel like I was in control at all. My body just… went. And then I was under.”
She nods slowly. “And do you want to hurt yourself now?”
