The wanting comes with memories, good ones for a change. The clatter of cutlery against plates, the fizz of mimosas poured too generously, Abbie’s laughter so loud, the next table stares, Ciarán waving his hands excitedly mid-story. My cheeks aching from smiling, the air humming with noise and warmth andbelonging.
I want that again. I want to walk into a place like Kindle’s and not feel panicked. I want to sit at a table with them and laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to feel like the world outside these walls isn’t dangerous.
I want to be the version of myself who can do that.
I just don’t know how to get back to him.
“You don’t have to stay in to stay safe,” Abbie says. Her words land like a weight and a lifeline all at once, because I know she’s right.
Ciarán’s voice is more tender than I’m used to. “Brunch isn’t just brunch. It’sus. You belong there.”
My nose stings as he says it. I look between them, my heart hammering. They’re not pushing, not really. They’re encouraging me, reminding me there’s still a place for me, if I’m brave enough to step into it.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur.
Abbie squeezes my hand again before leaning back. “That’s all we ask.”
After they leave, exhaustion settles over me.
I busy myself with tidying the takeout containers. That’s when I see it, stuck to the tea canister in Noah’s handwriting.
A bright blue square.
For Gabe only. Secret stash, check the third shelf, behind the Earl Grey. - N
A shaky laugh slips out as I open the cupboard, move the tea tin, and there they are—Oreos, hidden like treasure. I know we ran out, so he obviously got these for me. It’s the kind of littlething no one else would think to do, but he has. He thinks about me, about what I like, and leaves me proof.
For a moment, the warmth of it sinks in. It makes me feel a way I don’t know how to handle.
I take one of the cookies, twist it open, and scrape the icing with my tongue before eating the halves one at a time. The familiar sweetness settles on my tongue. A simple action I’ve done since I was a kid. Something predictable. Something I can control.
Sweet, simple, safe.
Later, lying in bed, the thought of brunch comes back, and the spiral starts.
It always starts the same way—one thought, then another, faster, sharper, until it feels like someone is pressing a hand forcefully to my chest. My heart kicks hard, like it’s trying to punch its way out.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through it, counting. One, two, three…
But the images keep coming.
The diner, crowded and too loud, forks scraping on plates, chairs shrieking against the floor. People pressed too close, brushing against me when they pass, and my body jolts as though it’s really happening. Eyes turning toward me, catching the scar on my cheek, wondering about it, staring too long.
I can feel it already—the heat crawling up my neck, the panic rising until it spills out. All my shame and fear on display for all to see. Abbie’s voice dipping gently, and Ciarán trying to calm me with a joke that sounds light. Their faces shifting when they realize how bad it really is, how broken I still am. How much I keep from them.
I resent myself for the fact that this is where my mind goes. I hate that the idea of being around the people I love makes my pulse spike like this.
I roll onto my side, bury my face in the pillow, but the thoughts follow.
The more I fight them, the louder they get.
I can’t breathe.
What if I can’t do things like that anymore? What if that version of me—the one who laughed at brunch, who wasn’t afraid of being seen—what if he doesn’t exist anymore? What if this is who I am now, small and scared and shut in?
Why did he do this to me? Why did he make me like this?
I hold my breath until my lungs sting. Until the edges of the room tilt, like I’ve stepped out of myself. If I stay still enough, if I stop the air from moving, maybe the thoughts will stop, too.
