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Fear tightens my stomach because this question has lived inside me since Cade told me I kept taking pieces of Ryan and calling it love.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

“That sounds medically compelling.”

I lie back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.

“A narcissist isn’t the only kind of person capable of being selfish,” I say eventually. “Wanting a diagnosis would give me another reason. I have enough reasons.”

“So what do you want?”

“Ryan.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

I hate myself a little for sounding exactly like him.

“What do you want for yourself?”

“Freedom.”

“From what?”

“Everyone deciding who I am.”

“Then why do you care whether Ryan thinks you’re healed?”

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

I sit upright and reach for my drink.

“Oh, fuck you.”

The phone continues recording.

I glare at it. “I’m trying to prove I’m different.”

“To whom?”

“Everyone.”

“Why?”

“Because I need them to believe treatment worked.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you need to prove it?”

“Because healthy people don’t fuck up like I did.”