“What we want to focus on is how that bond functions now. What parts of it are still serving both of you, and what parts may have become rigid or reactive over time.”
I let out a slow breath. “So you’re not saying this is wrong?”
Ezra shakes their head. “That’s not my job. Ari could be your full sibling that you shared a womb with, and it wouldn’t be my place to judge your feelings for him. But also, no, I don’t think it’s wrong. I think it’s complex. And that complexity deserves care, not condemnation.”
My chest tightens.
“Strategies that kept us safe during one point in our lives can become constricting later. Especially when the people we’re protecting grow and change, then begin to need different things from us and the world around them.”
I stare at the edge of the laptop, throat thick and lungs full.
“Caring deeply doesn’t exempt us from causing harm,” Ezra says softly. “And recognizing that doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you someone who is ready to grow.”
I meet their eyes through the screen. “Even if that means letting go,” I say, barely above a whisper, voice shaking.
“If your goal is to preserve this relationship—to allow it to evolve and thrive rather than fracture—then the work starts here. With a willingness to listen and accept his truths as well as your own. With curiosity and care instead of control.”
I nod slowly. I want that. I’m terrified of losing Ari, and a lifetime of instincts only make me want to latch on tighter. But I don’t want to stifle him. I want him to want to be with me, not feel compelled to be.
“We aren’t going to solve everything today,” they add. “But we can start by understanding why you react the way you do when Ari steps outside the carefully curated roles you’ve created for the two of you.”
I hesitate, then say quietly, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not protecting him.”
Ezra’s expression softens. “That’s a very good place to begin. Starting with the why of it all. Why are you so protective of Ari?”
“Because I love him,” I say automatically. “And because I’ve always protected him.”
“Exactly,” Ezra says. “Growing up, you were abandoned by the people who were meant to care for you. You weren’t chosen consistently or safely. You learned early that love was conditional and temporary, something that could be taken away without warning.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“But you chose Ari. You chose him when no one else did because you saw a kindred pain in someone even more helpless than you were. You protected him, advocated for him, and let that role become your entire existence, which served to protect you just as much as it did him. In turn, Ari gave you a lot of his autonomy, often allowing boundaries to blur in ways that made you feel more secure. It was his way of choosing you in return, even to his own detriment.”
Shifting in my seat, I struggle to find a comfortable position. The truth is just as uncomfortable as Jesse said it would be.
“The kind of bond you two have is intense by necessity, forged by your instincts to survive a traumatic environment. Trauma bonding creates a deeper sense of loyalty, a hyper-awareness of each other’s every move and emotion. Your need to control the environment, to anticipate threats, to manage Ari’s safety, is not because you’re cruel or manipulative at heart. It’s your nervous system recognizing a pattern that vigilance equals survival, mixed with a deep-seated fear of abandonment.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“But here’s the part you need to hear,” they say, their tone firmer but still kind. “That strategy may have kept you safe as children, but it no longer serves that purpose. Instead, it’s becoming the very thing that is hurting you both.”
My hand rubs over my sternum, over the ache of my ribs expanding and contracting to make room for breath in my aching chest.
“You can love someone deeply and have good intentions and still harm them,” Ezra says pointedly. “When love becomes indistinguishable from control, it can easily morph into a weapon. Even when the person holding it never intended to hurt anyone.”
I clench my eyes shut while I bear the pain of the truth I knew and still needed to hear.
“I don’t want to hurt him. Ever. Not under any circumstance,” I say. “What do I do to fix it. To fix me.”
“To grow, you need to heal. Not by managing Ari’s choices, but by learning to process and tolerate the fear that surfaces when you don’t. You have to face the fear, Will. And that means acknowledging, processing, and coming to terms with the potential that Ari will have the room to grow as well, and whatever that means for his journey.”
“Which means I could lose him either way.”
“Yes,” Ezra says, honestly but gently. “Whether this bond between you can evolve into the relationship you desire isn’t something anyone can guarantee. That depends solely on the choices you both make along the way. What I can tell you is that the path you’re on is unsustainable and will only continue to harm you both, whether you end up together or not.”
Before the end of the call, I schedule my first official session before I can talk myself out of it. Then I sit there for a long time, laptop dark, staring out into the city humming beyond the glass.
Eventually, I walk to the sidebar near the entryway, open a drawer, and pull out an old notebook. Ezra mentioned journalling to write down my thoughts or feelings when I have them as a way to process. It reminded me of the journal Ari left behind when he went away to start his own healing journey. It was the only piece of him I had while he was gone, and I took to carrying it around wherever I went. When I’m in Raleigh, it lives on the desk in the room I made for him that he’s never stepped foot in. When we’re on the road, it lives with my personal possessions, next to my passport and important things. I should have returned it by now, but it’s never felt like the right time to bring up that I have it, and I’ve sort of claimed it as my last connection to him.
