It makes the whole thing less like I’m the only idiot who got swallowed by the dark.
Dr. Kaur has tradedher office sweater for a blazer today. She looks like someone’s nice aunt who also happens to be ableto dismantle your entire belief system with one eyebrow. We’re in one of the smaller therapy rooms off the IOP wing. Softer lighting. A box of tissues. An abstract ocean print on the wall.
“How’s group, groupie?” she asks, settling into her chair.
I groan. “You’re not funny,” I say. “And fine. Surprisingly, not terrible.”
“High praise,” she says dryly. “Anything standing out?”
I think of Jess talking about wanting to throw her phone into the bay every time her mom texts. The older guy shared about driving to the bridge and turning around at the last second because the parking meter was broken and he took it as a sign. The girl who doesn’t talk but whose foot shakes the entire ninety minutes.
“Everyone’s brain is an asshole,” I say. “Not just mine.”
She nods, pleased. “Good data point.”
Dr. Kaur taps her pen against her notebook. “Today I want to look at something specific,” she says. “The part of you that decided to stay.”
I shift in my chair. “Pretty sure that part was mostly my liver reacting to medication,” I mutter.
“Your body fought,” she says. “But you said something in the hospital that stuck with me. That you didn’t want to die as much as you wanted it to stop.”
I stare at the abstract ocean thing.
“Yeah,” I say.
“When you were on the bed,” she continues, voice steady, “pills taken, cut made—before you lost consciousness, did anything flicker? Any image or thought that wasn’t ‘quiet’?”
Miguel’s face comes up so fast behind my eyes that my throat closes.
Him in the kitchen, wooden spoon mic, singing badly. Him in the hospital hallway, jaw clenched, eyes red. Him asleep in thechair by my bed, still holding my hand like his body forgot how to let go.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “Miggy.”
“What about him?” she prompts.
I pick at the band-aid on my wrist, lifting the corner ever so slightly. “His face,” I say. “I thought… I’m going to break him. I’m going to make him watch this again. And I hated that. For him.”
She nods, jotting something down. “Anything else?”
“Future flickers,” I say. “It was weird. Like my brain was running a trailer for a movie I didn’t think I was allowed to be in.”
“What kind of scenes?” she asks, not letting me dodge.
I sigh. “Stupid stuff,” I say. “Beach. Us on the couch cuddled up together. Maybe me coaching middle schoolers. Miguel in a kitchen that isn’t the condo. Kids.”
“And?” she says, because of course she can tell there’s something I’m editing.
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. “The treehouse,” I mutter.
Her pen stills. “A treehouse?” she repeats, looking up.
“Miguel found this Airbnb,” I say. “Treehouse in Big Sur, all glass and wood, tucked into the redwoods with this stupidly perfect view. He showed it to me and said, ‘When you’re ready, that’s our first real vacation. No school, no practice, no bullshit. Just us in a tree.’ It was a joke for him. A someday thing.” I swallow. “I… kind of imprinted on it.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Do you want that to stay a plan on his computer,” she asks gently, “or do you want it to be part of your ‘I chose to stay’ story someday?”
The thought hits something deep and aching in my chest. Little kid me looking at catalogs of houses and circling the ones with “play structure included.”
“I… want it,” I admit. “But it feels far away. Like… a post-credits scene far away.”
