Count the breaths.
But the thoughts won’t stop… memories of cold floors, nights alone, of faces that don’t care, of being hungry and too scared to cry out.
I glance at my phone under the desk. No messages. Not that I expected any—he’s probably already at work, moving through his normal, everyday life.
The professor calls on someone else. I pretend to raise my hand once, then sink back into the seat.
I’m a ghost here.
Just going through the motions. I take notes that won’t help me. Laugh when someone cracks a joke. Smile when someone smiles at me. Pretending to be alive when inside, everything inside me frays.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know today will end like every other—classes, basketball, and then a shower with Miguel waiting at the end. A little warmth in a world that’s been cold for too long.
That thought keeps me moving, even if it doesn’t keep the panic from clawing at me between breaths.
Maybe tonight I’ll actually fall asleep with him.
The waitingroom of the therapist smells like coffee and antiseptic. Beige walls. Fake plants. A ticking clock that’s somehow louder than anything else. I sit in the corner, backpack on my lap, legs bouncing like they’re trying to run away. My hands grip the straps tight enough to leave marks on my palms.
“Caleb?”
The door opens, and Dr. Kaur’s voice pulls me out of the mental gymnastics. Calm, familiar, patient. I stand, nod, and follow her into the office.
It’s quiet in here. Comfortable. Soft lighting, bookshelves lined with things that smell faintly like paper and lavender. The kind of office you would want to escape in if hiding from the world were possible.
“Good to see you,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her. “How have you been since last week?”
I shrug, not meeting her eyes. “Same.”
She leans back and steeples her fingers. “Same” can mean a lot of things. Sleep? Appetite? Anxiety?”
I laugh, dry and humorless. “Fine.”
Lie.Always lie.
The therapist sees through it anyway. I know she does.
She tilts her head. “Caleb, I want to talk about your childhood today. Just a little. Can you handle that?”
My stomach drops. Anxiety spikes. I want to nod, but my throat closes. Memories hover at the edges of my mind, like ghosts I’m not ready to invite in.
“I… I guess,” I murmur. Too quiet. I hope she didn’t hear the quiver in my voice.
“We don’t have to go far,” she nods gently. “Just whatever comes up naturally.”
I bite my lip. The office is silent. My own breathing sounds too loud in the space. I close my eyes for a second—and I’m five.
It starts with the ache of hunger. The kind that never goes away. The feelings of being ignored, of being too small. Too loud. Too much. My mother’s hand slapping my cheek for crying. The empty refrigerator. The cold kitchen floor.
I blink back the tears. The office is still here. Dr. Kaur’s is still in front of me. But I can’t shake the memory, the way it wraps around my ribcage and squeezes.
“Caleb?” she says, in a soft, careful way. “Look at me. You’re here now. You’re safe.”
I nod, hands shaking. I can feel the tears coming, the ones I’ve swallowed too many times to count.
“Tell me what you see.”
I hesitate.
