Miguel squeezes my knee gently. “You okay?”
“I’m…” I pull in a breath. “I’m bracing.”
He nods, not arguing, not minimizing. “Talk to Dr. Kaur about it,” he says. “Get some extra armor.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’ll add ‘emotional kevlar’ to my to-do list between ‘ace stats midterm’ and ‘don’t have breakdown at family dinner.’”
Miguel leans over and kisses the back of my head. “You’re gonna be okay, Caleb.”
“I’m trying to believe you,” I admit.
“Good,” he says. “Start there.”
By the timeI’m sitting in Dr. Kaur’s office that afternoon, my brain has had several hours to run possible spring break scenarios like a disaster movie marathon.
Dad yelling.
Dad crying.
Dad not saying anything at all and just going… cold.
Miguel stuck in the crossfire.
I sink into my usual spot on the couch, the cushion familiar under my thighs. Dr. Kaur sits across from me, notebook on her lap, pen poised but not threatening, her expression calm and open.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
I let my head thunk back against the wall. “Define ‘doing.’”
Her mouth twitches. “Existing?”
“Barely.” I blow out a breath. “It’s… a lot. But also not a lot. Which is somehow worse?”
“Let’s unpack the ‘lot’ first,” she says. “What’s at the top of the list?”
“Spring break,” I say immediately. “Dad texted this morning. He wants us—me and Miguel—to come up on Saturday. ‘Looking forward to having you both home.’”
Her brows lift slightly. “How did that land?”
“Like someone just said, ‘Welcome to the shark tank’ in a really polite voice,” I mutter. “I know he’s… trying. But my brain keeps going, What if this is when he decides he actually can’t handle it?”
She nods slowly. “What does ‘can’t handle it’ look like in your mind?”
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Worst case? He sits me down and says he’s been thinking, and actually, no, this is too much, I’m too much, and I need to break up with Miguel or lose him. Medium case? He’s… civil. Polite. But everything feels off. Like he’s holding his breath the whole time. Best case?” I shrug. “He’s awkward but… open. Like in Oregon.”
“And where,” she asks, “on that spectrum did dinner in Oregon actually land?”
I glare at her. “I hate when you use logic.”
“I know,” she says mildly. “Answer anyway.”
I sigh. “Somewhere between medium and best,” I admit. “He said some… rough things. The whole ‘are you sure this isn’t a phase’ and ‘what about children’ bit.” My stomach twists, remembering. “But he also said he’s proud of me. Twice. And he didn’t threaten to cut me off. He listened when I said I’m bi. He listened when Miguel said he’s not going anywhere.”
“How did you feel afterward?” she asks.
“Like I’d run a marathon emotionally,” I say. “But also… not shattered. I kept waiting for the crash and it didn’t hit as hard as I thought.”
“How much of that,” she asks, “do you think was because Miguel was there?”
