Page 81 of The Ache That Stayed

They felt too big the moment they formed. I tried again.

“Like you’re being pulled in two directions at the same time?”

Julian didn’t interrupt.

“And both feel…” I hesitated, searching for the right word. A word that didn’t sound as fractured as it felt. “Real.”

He nodded once. “Yes.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. He spoke before I could ask.

“When things become overwhelming,” he said instead, “the mind adapts. It suppresses what it can’t process. Redirects it. Keeps you anchored to the present so you don’t drown in everything else.”

I listened, despite myself.

“But sometimes,” he continued, “that same mechanism creates conflict. It splits what feels incompatible—even when it isn’t. It just divides it.”

I frowned slightly. “Divides what?”

“What you feel,” he said. “What you think you should feel.”

He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady.

“Sometimes both directions are valid.”

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

“And sometimes both are true.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “You’re sounding less like a therapist and more like a harbinger of bad decisions.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“They aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m just stating the truth, which is usually uncomfortable.”

He took a sip of his tea.

“People like to believe there’s always a right direction. A correct choice. An easy answer.”

“And there isn’t?”

“Not always.”

Silence stretched again.

“In rare cases,” he added, “both directions lead somewhere new. Somewhere you don’t expect. A reality that doesn’t fit into what we’ve been conditioned to accept.”

I let out a deep breath. “That sounds complicated.”

“It is,” he said. “Which is why most people avoid it.”

The word hit again.

Avoid.

I shook my head slightly, my gaze dropping to my hands.

“You’re talking like it’s simple.”