She wrote that down, and I hated watching her pen move across the page. “Are you eating?”
“Sure. When I have time.”
“Soren, I need you to actually answer the question.”
I sighed, leaning back and letting my head tip against the cushion. “I had toast yesterday morning. And I think I ate half a sandwich at some point. I don't remember.”
“That's not eating. That's surviving.”
“Yeah, well. Been doing a lot of that lately.”
She set the notebook aside and leaned forward a little, her voice getting softer but not in a way that made me feel better. “You seem more activated than usual today. Your leg's been bouncing since you sat down. Your hands keep moving. You smell like a bar. What happened?”
The observation landed like a punch, and I felt my jaw tighten defensively. “Nothing happened.”
“Soren.”
“I watched another one of his games,” I said finally, the words coming out flat and bitter. “Rook. The replay was on at the bar last night.”
She didn't react visibly, but I saw the shift in her posture—the way she settled back into her chair like she was preparing for a longer conversation. “Tell me about that. What was it like, watching him?”
“What do you think it was like? It sucked.”
“I'm asking you to tell me. Not what you think I want to hear. What did it actually feel like?”
I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to find words that didn't make me sound completely pathetic. “It felt like getting hit in the chest. Like I couldn't breathe right. Like I was watching this whole life he built without me and realizing I don't belong anywhere near it.”
“Do you want to belong near it?”
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again because I didn't actually know how to explain it. “I don't know. Maybe. But it doesn't matter, does it? I left. I made that choice.”
“You were in crisis,” she said gently. “You were trying to survive. That's different than making a choice.”
“Yeah, well. He doesn't know that. He just knows I disappeared and never came back.”
“Have you thought about reaching out to him? Telling him what happened?”
I laughed, but it came out harsh and broken. “And say what? 'Hey, sorry I ghosted you for thirteen years, but my life was falling apart and I didn't want you to see me like that'? That's gonna go over real well.”
“You're assuming he'd react badly.”
“I'm assuming he moved on. Found better people. People who don't bail when things get hard.”
She was quiet for a moment, just watching me with that steady patience that made it impossible to hide. “How often are you watching his games?”
My jaw tightened. I didn't want to answer, didn't want to admit how obsessive I'd gotten about this. “I don't know. Sometimes.”
“Soren, we've talked about this. I need specifics. Once a month? Once a week?”
“More than that,” I admitted, staring at the floor instead of looking at her. “I watch whenever they're playing. Check the highlights if I miss a game. Follow the sports blogs to see what people are saying about him. Read the comment sections. All of it.”
The silence after that admission felt heavy, and I could feel her processing what I'd just said. When she spoke again, her voice was careful but direct. “That's a lot of time spent on someone you say you've moved on from.”
“I didn't say I moved on.”
“No, you didn't. But you're acting like watching him from a distance is somehow keeping you connected to him. Is that what it feels like?”
I didn't answer right away. Couldn't answer without making it sound worse than it already was. “I just need to know he'sokay. That he's doing well. That leaving him was the right thing to do.”
