“Valentina was sent back to the states,” I said, palming my hair. “After asking around, I found out she married her high school sweetheart and lives somewhere in Vermont. End of story.”
Monique nodded once, slowly. “You and Valentina used each other to survive. That’s not shameful, Sawyer, but it wasn’t the same as building a life.” She tapped her pen against the folder. “It was also against regulations, which braided the whole thing with guilt and fear. That might be why your brain files ‘wanting’ alongside ‘danger’ and ‘loss.’”
I stared at the framed print on her wall—a mountain lake that looked too clean to be real. She let the quiet expand again, then cut through it.
“Don’t confuse the wound of losing Valentina with what you’re feeling now,” she said. “Different context. Different stakes.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Feels like the same animal when it’s charging.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you’re not in a storage room anymore.”
I huffed out something like a laugh. “No. I’m in a kitchen or a bedroom. And then I’m out the door before sunrise.”
“That’s avoidance and control,” Monique said evenly. “Tactics that kept you alive then. Habits that keep you alone now.”
I stared at her. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” she said. “It’s work. Which is why you’re here.” She leaned forward a little. “Other than sex, what do you and Lilly share?”
I opened my mouth, closed it again. My first instinct was to say nothing. Then a different picture landed—soft and unexpected.
“She’s got this dog,” I said. “Sunny. Loves that mutt more than life. Talks to her like she’s a person. Sunny watches me, deciding if I’m worth liking.”
Monique’s pen paused, then moved. “And you?”
“You know me,” I said. “Grace. If anyone says her name wrong, I’m ready to throw hands.”
Monique smiled, small and knowing. “So you both love fiercely, even when it hurts. That’s a connection, Sawyer. Lean on it.” She set the pen down. “Next time you want to see her, don’t show up in the middle of the night. Ask her to take Sunny for a walk with you. Or invite her to ride Grace. Connection is built in the daylight, not in the shadows.”
I looked at the corner of the room and let the idea run laps. Daylight. Not my favorite terrain. “And the meds?”
She flipped to a different page in my file. “I’m going to cut your dosage slightly,” she said. “You’ve earned the stability, but I don’t want you so buffered you can’t access anything but heat at midnight. There are risks—more reactivity, maybe sharper edges—but we’ll watch it.”
I nodded.
“Homework,” she added. “Keep a simple log. One page. Note when you feel numb, when you feel alive, and what seems to trigger either.”
I made a face. “A diary?”
“A data set. Even if it’s just a mental one,” she said dryly. “And one more thing.” She waited until I met her eyes. “Make sure it’s about more than her body. Note what you’d want if fear wasn’t calling the shots.”
My laugh came out rough. “So we’re doing dating coaching now?”
Monique didn’t smile. “I’m not your coach,” she said. “I’m your mirror. You can look away, but it won’t change what’s staring back at you.”
I sat with that. The hum of the building pressed in—HVAC, footsteps in the hall, someone’s cough two doors down. My pulse had steadied. My hands were still.
“You think I can do it?” I asked, and hated how young that sounded.
“I think you already started,” she said. “You told the truth.”
I nodded once and stood. She tore out the prescription and handed it over. The paper was light—its meaning was heavy.
“Daylight,” she said, as I reached for the door. “Walks. Rides. Don’t vanish before sunrise.”
“Copy that,” I said.
When I pushed out into the Montana noon, the light caught me square, bright enough I had to squint. I stood there an extra second, letting the sun sit on my face, allowing her words to land where they needed to.
