Dr. Lin leaned forward slightly, her expression gentle but firm. “You're right. He shouldn't be the only reason you stay alive. But Soren, he can be one of many reasons. Having people you love who make life worth living—that's not weakness. That's being human.”
“It feels like weakness.”
“I know it does. But having support and needing people are not the same as being a burden. Rowan chose to stay. He chose to be there for you. That's his decision, not something you forced on him.”
I stared at the floor, trying to let that sink in. “He keeps asking if I'm okay. Like every five minutes. It's driving me crazy, but also—I kind of love it? Which makes me feel pathetic.”
“Why does it make you feel pathetic?”
“Because I've spent thirteen years convincing myself I don't need anyone. That I can handle everything on my own. And now I've got this man following me around making sure I eat breakfast and asking if I slept okay, and I'm realizing how much I want that. How much I've been starving for someone to give a damn whether I'm okay.”
“That's not pathetic. That's honest.”
“Feels pathetic.”
“Soren.” Dr. Lin's voice was patient but pointed. “You've been carrying the weight of your entire family since you were barely an adult. You've been the person everyone else relies on, and you've done that job remarkably well. But you can't pour from an empty cup. At some point, you need to let yourself be cared for too.”
“What if I get used to it and then it goes away?”
“What if you get used to it and it doesn't?”
I didn't have an answer for that.
“He makes me want things I stopped letting myself want,” I said quietly. “A future. A person who gives a damn whether I make it through the day. The idea that maybe I deserve to be happy. And that's terrifying, because what if I'm wrong? What if I let myself believe all of that and then it falls apart anyway?”
“Then you'll survive it,” Dr. Lin said. “The same way you've survived everything else. But Soren, you can't protect yourself from pain by refusing to let anyone in. That's not safety. That's just a different kind of dying.”
I had to blink hard to keep the tears from spilling over. “I don't know how to do this. How to let him help without making him responsible for me.”
“You start by being honest. By telling him when things are hard instead of pretending you're fine. By accepting the help he's offering without turning it into a transaction where you owe him something in return. By trusting that he's capable of setting his own boundaries and that he'll tell you if it becomes too much.”
“And if it does become too much?”
“Then you'll deal with it together. But you can't make that decision for him by pushing him away before he has a chance to prove he's staying.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Dr. Lin was quiet for a moment, just watching me with that steady patience she had. “Soren, I want you to hear this clearly. You do deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved, and cared for, and safe. And the fact that you're sitting here today, talking about this honestly, tells me you're starting to believe that on some level.”
“I don't know if I believe it yet. But I'm trying.”
“That's enough for now.”
We talked for a while longer about the practical pieces—medication options, safety planning, what to do when the thoughts got loud again. Dr. Lin suggested looking into AA meetings or other support groups, and I promised I'd think about it even though the idea made me want to crawl out of my skin.
Near the end of the session, I asked if Rook could come in, and Dr. Lin went to get him from the waiting room. He walked in looking nervous, like he thought he was about to get graded on his caretaking skills, and I had to fight back a smile.
“Thanks for coming in,” Dr. Lin said, gesturing to the chair next to mine. “I wanted to go over the safety plan with both of you so everyone's on the same page.”
Rook sat down, his knee brushing against mine. “Okay.”
Dr. Lin pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “This outlines warning signs, coping strategies, and crisis contacts. Soren, I need you to commit to reaching out before things get critical. That means calling me, or Rowan, or the crisis line if you start feeling unsafe. Can you do that?”
“Yeah. I can try.”
“Not try. Do. This isn't optional.”
“Okay. I'll do it.”
