— Difficulty sleeping
— Changes in appetite
— Persistent feelings of sadness
— Anxiety or worry
— Thoughts of self-harm or suicide
I hate how long I stare at that last line.
Eventually, I check the box.
I don’t live there. Not like Caleb does. But there are nights when the world feels very small and very hopeless, when the weight of holding him up and keeping the lights on and making sure Mom’s okay presses in all at once. Nights where the thought flickers?—
What if I just stopped?
I don’t let it stay. But it passes through.
I’m not going to lie about that. Not here.
The door to the interior hallway opens, and a guy steps out. Late thirties, maybe, darker complexion, and dark hair going a little silver at the temples. He wears a button-up and slacks, but he doesn’t have that stiff lawyer posture I’m used to from Ashton’s world. More like someone who spends a lot of time leaning forward.
“Miguel?” he asks, voice nice and even.
“Yeah.” I stand, the clipboard suddenly heavy in my hand.
He smiles, small but real. “I’m Dr. Ortega,” he says. “You can call me Luis, if you’d like. Come on back.”
Something in my shoulders relaxes half an inch at the last name.
His office is down a short hall, the second door on the left. It’s smaller than Dr. Kaur’s—and I know that because I’ve built a mental picture of hers from everything Caleb’s told me. There’s a chair, a couch, and a small desk in the corner. One wall is all books. Another has a big framed photograph of a beach at sunset.
It smells faintly like tea.
“Have a seat wherever’s comfortable,” he says, gesturing to the couch.
I sit on the very end of it, like I’m ready to bolt.
He takes the chair across from me, not behind the desk. Clipboard in hand, but angled away.
“How’s your day been so far?” he asks.
“Electrical,” I say automatically. “Ran cable, yelled at a breaker, insulted some very old wiring. Same as usual.”
His mouth twitches. “So you’re an electrician?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Work with a small crew in town. We do mostly residential and some small commercial stuff.”
He nods like he’s actually interested, not humoring me. “And what brought you in today?”
There it is.
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans, pulling it tight. “My partner,” I say finally. “He… uh. He goes to the campus counseling center. A lot. His therapist suggested I might want…” I wave a hand, searching for a word that doesn’t make my skin crawl. “…support. For myself. To help him. Without turning into a crazy person.”
“How long have you been with your partner?” he asks. “And how long has he been in therapy, as far as you know?”
“We’ve been together since Halloween,” I say. “But we’ve known each other since we were kids. He’s been seeing hiscurrent therapist since… last year? The beginning of the year. Before that, it was… ‘find a new shrink every time he breaks,’ courtesy of his dad.”
