No. That sounds too dry.
"Hi, Dr. Mercer. Just letting you know I'm okay."
Too light.
"Thank you for hearing me today. It meant more than you know."
That's better. It's softer. It can touch the bruised part of him without pressing too hard.
The rehearsing doesn't stop the spiraling. Every minute the phone stays silent, my pulse jumps higher. I imagine him sitting on his couch, head in his hands, exhausted because of me. He could be rereading my file, seeing every trauma bullet point, every self-harm history, and realizing that no referral therapist will undo what he's already become to me.
I wonder if he's arguing with himself because the right decision scares him, and the wrong one terrifies him even more.
My legs feel shaky. I curl onto the couch, dragging a blanket over me even though I'm sweating from the adrenaline. I stare at the window, replaying how he walked through the city earlier, quiet and guarded, unaware that I was only twenty feet behind him, matching his steps as if we were already tethered.
We are tethered. He just doesn't want to admit it yet.
"No one knows you like I do," I whisper to the quiet room. "No one ever will."
The truth settles warm and bright under my ribs. He can think, but we both know he wants me. All I have to do is be exactly what he needs and show him what he can't lose.
I pull my phone to my chest, close my eyes, and wait for the screen to light up.
It's only a matter of time.
I debate so long that I fall asleep on the couch.
Morning sneaks up on me like an unwanted truth, slipping pale light through the blinds and crawling across my floor. My phone is on my chest, exactly where I fell asleep holding it, screen-cold and painfully blank.
I blink at it, half expecting that maybe, while I slept,hetexted. Maybe I missed it, and he chose me, but the universe just delayed the notification.
I glance at my phone log and text chain.
Nothing.
My lungs stop working for a second. The silence is too sharp, too loud, too punishing.
A metallic panic spreads across my ribs like something sharp lodged beneath them. I sit up too quickly, the room spins as I shove off the blanket and pace toward the kitchen. I open the fridge. Close it. Open it again, looking for something, anything, that will stop the shaking, but the cold light inside makes me realize how hollow my stomach feels.
I grab a glass of water and set it on the counter, but I can't drink. My hands grip the granite instead, knuckles whitening, mind racing with the worst-case versions of his voice.
Blue, we can't continue.
Blue, it's not appropriate.
Blue, goodbye.
The word curls like poison in my throat.
No. He won't do that. He can't. Not after everything.
I force myself to breathe, but my chest squeezes too tightly again.
I march to my bedroom, pull his photo up on my phone. It's the one where he saw me across the room and stopped breathing. His expression is still a live wire. His desire is still right there, burning in his darkened eyes and set in his tense jaw.
A small, trembling smile tugs at my mouth.
A man who looks at a woman the way he looked at me does not walk away. Not willingly.
