I flinched, stung. A couple kissed as they passed by, laughing, and the wind carried their breathless happiness right past me like a taunt.
“I’m not drowning,” I said. “I’m…breathing for the first time in my life.”
She didn’t soften. “Who is his doctor?”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“His doctor. His therapist. There’s no way that he isn’t seeking mental help if he’s dating you. I want names. I want to know he’s not enabling you.”
My throat closed. The world tilted cruelly, as if she’d just confirmed the worst thing I’d always suspected…that loving me meant there was something wrong with him, too. The sting hit so hard I couldn’t breathe.
When I finally managed to speak, my voice was barely a whisper. “He loves me,” I said again, shattered. “He really does.”
I thought of his voice again.It’s not wrong, Ophelia. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. It’s not wrong.
“He makes me better.”
“No,” she said quickly, like slapping a hand over my mouth. “He makes youfeelbetter. That is not the same thing. You can be getting sicker while he masks the symptoms…until it’s too late.”
I stared at the scuffed toe of my boot. I could hear my mother riffling papers again, and theclick-clickof her pen.
“Okay,” she said, in that tight administrator voice, the one that meant a plan was forming into a weapon. “Here is what’s going to happen. You are going to call Dr. Whitaker and beg for the next available slot. You are going to apologize to the group and show up this Sunday. You are going to text me a photo of your pill bottle with today’s date and the count. And you are going to check in with me morning and night. If any of this is not done, I will push the issue with the school and make sure you are placed on medical leave.”
Ice slid down my spine. “That’s not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s—because—” Because it felt like letting her put a leash around my neck. “Because there’s nothing wrong!”
“That boy is a trigger,” she hissed. “You don’t get to assign him a role that justifies whatever your brain wants next.”
“He’s not a trigger,” I said, and the ache in my chest went hot and messy…anger, shame, love—all of it knotted together. “He’s a person. He’smyperson.”
“Stop,” she snapped, and I heard the tremor then, the one she tried to hide under orders. “Stop talking like that.”
I closed my eyes, another tear slipping down my face.
“You named me Ophelia,” I said, and my voice barely carried over the wind. “You said it was because you almost died giving birth to me. Because love can kill you. I know. I know what you think I am.”
Silence, except for her breathing.
“But I’m not walking into any rivers.”
“You never think you are,” she said, softer, and somehow that hurt worse. “You think you’re standing on the bank, testing the water with your toes. You tell me you’re sleeping better. You tell me you’re eating. And then…everything falls apart.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal. A couple of girls walked past me, talking and laughing like they didn’t have a single worry.
The world seemed to keep moving for everyone else…while mine always telescoped down to this small, ugly place.
“I’m not that girl anymore,” I said. “I swear. I’m not.”
“Where are you right now?”
I swallowed. “Walking to eat.”
“With who?”
“By myself.”
