Page 5 of Laced in Longing

“Have you made any connections yet? Colleagues, neighbors?”

I snort, the sound becoming tangible before floating away. “It’s barely been two weeks, Dr. Voss.”

“That’s not a no,” she points out.

“It’s not a yes either.”

I hurry down the sidewalk, boots crunching on salt and ice. The stone buildings, creased with the rising moon’s shadows, have witnessed centuries of winters far worse than this one. I’m mesmerized by the yellow glow seeping through their windows, each one framing little dioramas of lives I’ll never understand.

“Maven,” my keeper’s voice hardens, “avoidance does not motivate progress. You know this.” My eyes roll hard.

“Neither does forced small talk with strangers, Helena,” I counter, my steps quickening as heat creeps over my neck. “Besides, it’s the same story every time. People try to be friendly for a week or two, then they pick up on whatever fucked-up energy I give off and distance themselves. Why bother?” She doesn’t comment on my use of her name—something she hates and has repeatedly asked me to stop doing.

“You need someone in your life. Connection is vital to mental health.”

“So is not freezing to death, which is what’s going to happen if I don’t get to my apartment soon. Can we wrap this up?”

There’s a pause. I picture her expression: the slight pinch between her blond brows, the way she presses her thin lips together when I’m being particularly difficult. Not angry, just calculating her next approach.

“How are you sleeping?” she finally asks.

I falter in my steps as every thought snaps to the dreams and the flowers that appear after them. I should tell her about them. A responsible person would mention the possible hallucinations, or at least the increasing sense that someone is watching me.

Instead, I say, “Fine. No issues.”

“And your mood?”

“Stellar. I’m thinking of joining a cheerleading squad.”

“Maven.”

I groan, squeezing the edges of my phone. “What do you want me to say?” I snap, voice echoing. A couple across the street glances in my direction, and I have the urge to flip them off for intruding on this magnificent conversation. “That I’m still the same depressed piece of shit I was in Boston? That nothing’s changed except the scenery and plummeting temperature? Fine. You’re right. I’m still miserable. Professionally diagnosed and certified. Can I go now?”

I’ve reached my building—and my social limit. The entry door is a bitch to open, heavy wood with iron fixtures, probably original though the lock has been modernized.

Dr. Voss sighs, a rare crack in her professional veneer. “I’m not trying to antagonize you. I just need to know you’re maintaining our agreement.”

I dig for my keys with stiff, numb fingers. “I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“That’s a low bar, Maven.”

“Well, it’s the only one I care about clearing.” My neck cracks as I step inside my apartment and set my work bag down. “Look, I’m home now. I survived another day. Gold star for me.”

A pen clicks several times over the line. She’s frustrated with me. “Have you been taking your medication?”

I kick off my shoes before leaning against the wall—the thing probably hasn’t been washed since this place was built. I almost find it in myself to care that I’m touching it. “Yes, doctor. Every morning, right after brushing my teeth and before contemplating the meaningless void of existence.” I swear one of these days I’m going to block her number, toss my phone, and hitch a ride to the wilderness so she can’t find me.

There’s another pause, followed by a deep sigh. “We’ll continue this tomorrow at our usual time.” Is she fucking kidding me right now?

“I thought you had a conference.”

“I’ll make time.” Then why the fuck did she put me through this today? “Don’t be late.” Before I can respond, she hangs up. I toss the phone across the apartment, wincing when it bounces off the bed before careening into the floor. I cannot afford a new one.

My eyes trace the cracked ceiling as I sit in the blissful burning of my thighs. Last weekend, I discovered a door in the hallway that leads to the roof. Accessible only from this floor, supposedly for maintenance purposes, though there hasn’t been any maintenance since I’ve lived here.

I didn’t pay extra for roof access. The landlord forgot to mention it when showing me the apartment, which is interesting since my key unlocks the damn thing.

Maybe it’s the universe nudging me along, providing a convenient exit strategy. Here you go, Maven. Six stories up. No barriers or locked doors. Just one step and gravity does the rest.