I turn fully toward Zaria now.
“There is no version of my life where you’re temporary or optional,” I say, my voice firm but controlled. “I don’t see a love without you in it.”
Her eyes glisten.
“You don’t get that kind of place in my life because Lena died,” I continue. “You get it because you deserve it.”
Silence.
“I didn’t fall into you out of grief,” I add. “I chose you before we buried her.”
Dr. Manning nods slightly.
“What I’m hearing,” she says, “is fear on both sides. Fear that moving forward means letting go. Fear that growing love equals replacing.”
Zaria nods slowly.
“I don’t want to replace her,” she whispers.
“You can’t,” Dr. Manning replies gently. “And you’re not supposed to.”
I lean back with a deep exhale.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“You grieve her,” Dr. Manning says. “And you build something new. Not because she’s gone. But because you’re alive.”
Zaria’s hand shifts slightly on the couch cushion between us making connection with me.
“You need to decide,” Dr. Manning continues, “if your love is rooted in shared loss… or shared vision.”
I look at Zaria again. “I want shared vision,” I say.
She studies me carefully.
“Then stop punishing yourself for loving me,” she says softly.
A lightbulb flickers on and I realize we haven’t been grieving wrong. We’ve just been grieving alone.
And that part?
That ends here.
Dr. Manning lets the silence stretch for a moment before she asks the question neither of us were ready for.
“And what about the future?” she says carefully. “Have you two discussed what your relationship looks like long term? Structurally.”
I know what she means before she clarifies.
“Do you see yourselves remaining monogamous to each other? Or does non-monogamy still feel like part of your identity?”
Zaria’s fingers tense slightly in mine.
I exhale slowly. “We haven’t talked about it,” I admit.
“That’s not entirely true,” Zaria says softly. “We’ve avoided talking about it.”
Dr. Manning nods. “Avoidance is still communication.”
