Zaria squeezes my hand.
“I don’t want to use someone else as a bandage,” she says quietly.
“And I don’t want to rush into something out of fear of losing who we were,” I add.
Dr. Manning nods approvingly.
“Then your work is clear. Feel your grief. Rebuild your intimacy. Create a relationship that exists because you choose each other — not because you’re trying to recreate what you had.”
The air feels lighter somehow. Less pressured.
Zaria looks at me carefully. “We don’t need to decide anything today,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “We don’t.”
Today the future doesn’t feel like a cliff. It feels like something we can walk toward together.
Dr. Manning studies us for a moment longer, then folds her hands neatly in her lap.
“How’s the romance?” she asks gently. “And the intimacy?”
Zaria exhales first.
“Strained,” she admits.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“In what way?” Dr. Manning presses.
“We’re careful,” I say. “Too careful.”
Zaria glances at me. “It’s like we’re afraid to cross a line that doesn’t exist.”
Dr. Manning tilts her head. “Explain.”
“We don’t initiate the way we used to,” Zaria says quietly. “If we kiss too long, it feels like we’re sneaking doing something we shouldn’t. If we laugh too loud, it feels wrong. If we touch…” She trails off.
“It feels like someone’s missing,” I finish.
Dr. Manning nods thoughtfully. “Or that you’re censoring your joy.”
Today Dr. Manning is calling us to the carpet at every turn.
Censoring.
“I don’t want it to look like we’re moving on,” I admit.
“Intimacy isn’t replacement,” Dr. Manning says calmly. “It’s continuation.”
Zaria frowns slightly. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Because your nervous systems are still associating pleasure with guilt,” she explains. “You’re in a trauma loop. Grief tells you that suffering equals loyalty.”
Silence and stillness hold the room hostage.
“That’s… accurate,” I admit.
Dr. Manning leans forward slightly.
