He doesn't react. "I'm not insisting."
I scoff, "That's a terrible idea. They'll hate this. They'll hate you. They'll shut everything down."
He agrees, "Possibly. Or it could provide context and support."
I snap, "My father is never going to come to therapy. He isn't weak."
His voice is too calm. "It doesn't make him weak."
I stand abruptly, pacing a few steps before stopping. My skin tightens until I think it might suffocate me. "You don't understand what you're asking."
"Then help me understand."
I turn back to him, breath shaking. "You bring them in, and suddenly this isn't about me anymore. It's about control and who's to blame."
"Who holds that burden now, Blue?"
I freeze.
Me.
Always me.
I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "I don't want to lose what little autonomy I have."
"I hear you. And you won't. We would only proceed with your consent. And at your pace."
I stare at the floor. "I need time."
"That's okay," he says.
The session winds down after that. He gives me grounding exercises, mentions alternative coping strategies, and makes notes I pretend not to notice.
When the time is up, I stand slowly. My body feels wrung out but lighter in a way that doesn't make sense to me. I pause at the door. "You're not mad at me?"
"No," he says.
"Disappointed?"
"Concerned, but I will never get mad at you over what we discuss in therapy," he declares.
I blink hard, locked in my stance.
He gives a small smile. "We'll continue next week."
I hesitate, then ask, "You're not going to disappear?"
"I'm here."
I leave with that echoing in my chest, unsure whether it's a promise or a boundary, but clinging to it all the same.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Red
The door closes behind her with a muted click, precise and final, and I remain seated where I was when she stood. My posture's composed, my hands folded on the desk, waiting for her to turn around and come back in.
Where are you, Bluebird?
