If it’s weak, you see it.
If it’s warped, you plane it.
If it’s rotten, you cut it out and start over.
People aren’t that simple.
I don’t talk much about the city. Or the morning the sky turned the wrong color. Or how silence after sirens can be louder than the sirens themselves.
Everyone lost someone.
Everyone carries something.
Mine is layered — grief under shame under fear under something I still can’t name.
And then there’s Sage.
I’m not blind anymore.
Summer nights under stars don’t blur the edges now.
The therapist’s office smells like peppermint and old paper.
Neutral on purpose.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch. The space between us is measured. Intentional. Unremarked upon.
Sage sits straight-backed. Ankles crossed. Hands folded in her lap like she’s testifying.
Some weeks she barely speaks.
Some weeks she opens everything.
Abandonment. Control. The way fear makes her do things she swears she doesn’t recognize.
She cries differently now. No storms. No spirals. No blaming.
Just tears she wipes away herself.
“I don’t want to be that person,” she says once, voice steady. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I say less.
I talk about trust like it’s a bank account that’s been emptied too many times.
I talk about love turning from refuge into perimeter.
The therapist asks questions that don’t corner either of us.
After sessions, Sage usually turns to me and asks, “How did that feel for you?”
I never know how to answer.
Sometimes we get coffee afterward.
We sit across from each other like people who used to share a bed and now share careful eye contact.
Sometimes dinner.
