"Yes." I pause. "And because of what didn't."
His pen stills.
I swallow. "I keep oscillating between feeling embarrassed and feeling angry. At myself. At you."
"That makes sense," he says.
"I don't like that you get to decide when we talk. I don't like feeling..." I look down at my hands and tug at my fingers, wishing I had a pin.
"Feeling what, Blue?" he gently asks.
I meet his gaze. "Cut off."
He nods slowly. "Loss of access can feel destabilizing."
I snort. "That's a clinical way to say it."
"It's an honest one."
I study his distance and restraint. He holds the line like it's the only thing keeping both of us upright.
I blurt out, "I didn't hurt myself."
His gaze lifts sharply. "That's good, but I didn't ask. Is there a reason you just told me that?"
"I thought you'd want to know."
"I do. Thank you for telling me. Did you want to hurt yourself since I last saw you?"
I nod and say, "No."
He peers closer. "So that's really a yes?"
My heart races faster. I confess, "Not with a knife. I wanted to push pins in my hip, but I thought you wouldn't approve, so I didn't."
His forehead wrinkles. "Have you pushed pins in yourself before?"
"Yes."
"You stopped yourself on your own?"
"Yes."
A tiny smile lights up his face. He praises, "That's good, Blue. How did it make you feel when you didn't do it?"
"Honestly?"
"Yes. Pure honesty," he replies.
I take a deep breath. "I felt like I was going crazy."
"But you didn't go crazy, did you?" he points out.
I shrug. "Felt like it."
"You didn't," he reiterates with pride in his voice.
Warmth spreads through me from his approval in an immediate and dangerous flow. I curl my fingers into my palm to ground myself.
