Read: Now I always eat the broken pieces first.
Me: Understandable. You almost died.
I typed, fingers sticky, leaving little smudged prints across the glass.
Read: Accurate. Plus, you’re talking, which I’m counting as a win. Are you feeling even a little bit better?
I checked in, cautiously, like I was tiptoeing up to a wild animal. The buzzing had dialed down a notch. My hands still shook, but less. The air didn’t feel quite as heavy against my tongue.
Me: A little.
Read: I’m glad. And I’m proud of you for eating. I know that’s not easy when your day’s been this rough.
Proud of you.
They glowed against my palm. I stared at them; the words blank and unfamiliar.
I couldn’t recall anyone ever saying that to me, not in a way that counted. It felt wrong, like he’d sent it to the wrong woman entirely. But the phrase didn’t bounce off. It sank in carefully, cautious and unsure, as if testing whether it was allowed to stay.
The chorus stirred, sluggish now.He’s overreacting. It was just cereal. Don’t be pathetic.
Read: Think you have it in you for a shower?
My shoulders slumped. The thought alone made me want to sink into the floor. Water meant undressing. Undressing meant looking.
Me: I really don’t want to.
Read: I believe you. But humor me? There’s that old saying—if you’re anxious, breathe; if you’re depressed, shower; if you’re furious, sleep. I don’t know what you’d call today, but I’m guessing you hit all three. Water can help reset the dial.
The responses flew, reflexive.
Me: What are you, a therapist?
Read: Not even close. Just someone who’s crashed hard enough that I had to learn a few tricks. I promise I’m not diagnosing you from a cereal box.
He wasn’t telling me I was overreacting. He wasn’t telling me to cheer up, or that other people had it worse, or that I should be grateful I even had investors to yell at me.
He was… asking me to stand under hot water.
I could do that.
Maybe.
My legs felt like they belonged to someone else as I walked down the hall. The bathroom light flicked on, harsh and bright. Icaught a smudge of my reflection in the mirror and flinched but didn’t linger.
The shower handle squeaked as I turned it, the first spray icy and unforgiving. I jerked back on instinct, then eased it warmer, testing until the temperature settled somewhere that didn’t sting. Steam folded into the air, fogging the glass, blurring the edges.
Me: Okay. I’m getting in.
I set the phone on the counter, display still glowing.
Read: I’m proud of you.
Those words. Twice now. I still had no idea where to put them, how to hold them, how not to flinch from them. So I turned away from the screen and stepped under the water.
Wet heat sluiced over my hair, down my back, across muscles that had been locked since morning. It wasn’t a miracle. It didn’t cure the buzzing or erase the day. But it gave my body something else to feel. Weight. Heat. The slip of soap against skin. The tiny drag of droplets racing each other down my arms.
My mind tried to drag me back to the conference room. To Davidson’s smirk. To Bell’s condescension. To Margaret’s careful phrasing as she shifted from support to warning.
