“What it would look like,” I continued, voice trembling, “if he hadn’t destroyed it. If we were still... whole.” The word made my breath hitch. I hadn’t realized until now how much I still mourned the idea of being whole.
“I wasn’t imagining it because I want him back,” I said quickly, like I needed to clarify. Like I needed to protect myself from misinterpretation.
Dr. Bonnie nodded calmly. “I understand.”
“I imagined it,” I whispered, “because my heart still remembers what it wanted to be.”
“You said something earlier,” she said softly. “That you’re seeing Adrian differently.”
“Yes.” I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, embarrassed by the softness of myself.
“How?” She asked.
I exhaled slowly. “He’s... different,” I said. “Not in a performative way.”
I looked up. “It’s the little things,” I continued. “The way he asked permission with his eyes. The way he didn’t touch me. The way he didn’t try to stand too close even when it would’ve looked better for the photo.”
I paused.
“He respected the line,” I whispered. “And yesterday, I didn’t see him as the man who betrayed me.”
My voice came quieter than I meant it to, like a confession I wasn’t proud to own. “I saw him as someone else. Someone who has lived with consequences long enough to change.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Dr. Bonnie’s voice came gently. “And what does that mean to you?”
I stared at the floor.
“It means...” I swallowed, “the version of him I hated isn’t standing in front of me anymore.”
My fingers twisted together in my lap. I could feel my heartbeat in my palms, slow and stubborn, like it was trying to teach my body a new rhythm.
“And that makes me feel lost,” I admitted, the words coming out quieter than I expected. “Because hatred was easier.”
The words came out raw and honest.
Hatred had been my fuel, my armor, my certainty—because if I hated him, I didn’t have to make room for softness, didn’t have to risk disappointment again, didn’t have to wonder what healing might open inside me.
Dr. Bonnie nodded slowly, like she’d been waiting for me to say that. “Anger can feel safer than grief,” she said softly.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“And hope,” she added gently, “can feel more dangerous than pain, because pain is familiar.”
I closed my eyes. “Exactly,” I whispered.
Dr. Bonnie leaned forward slightly, voice warm but firm. “Elena,” she said, “healing doesn’t mean you have to go back.”
I opened my eyes again.
“It doesn’t mean you have to reconcile,” she continued. “It doesn’t mean you owe him anything.”
Her voice stayed steady. “Healing means you are reclaiming your body from survival. You are giving yourself permission not to be alert forever.”
My chest tightened. My hands trembled faintly. “But what if...” I hesitated, “what if I start seeing him as safe again?”
“Then you decide what to do with that information.” Dr. Bonnie held my gaze. “Safety doesn’t require romance.” She let the words land.
