I could not blame them. I knew I did not deserve forgiveness. I did not deserve her trust back. And yet I could not stop trying. I would find her. I would apologize again, and I would mean it. I would fight for her, even if it was against myself.
Because she's April.
She's all of April: the storm that rolls in without warning, the sunlight that breaks through after days of gray, and the fragile flowers that insist on blooming even when the world is cold. But she's also the mountain beneath all of it. I can't lose that. I won't.
Chapter 7: Soft Landing
The morning came gently.
I stayed in bed for a long time, listening to the small sounds of July moving in the kitchen, the kettle humming, the clink of her spoon against her mug. It was stupid how proud saying my name made me feel. Like I'd survived something monumental without anyone else knowing.
Eventually I pushed myself up and padded out of the bedroom. July was pouring tea when she turned and saw me.
"Morning," she said, warm and easy.
I smiled then I reached for my notebook.
I said a word yesterday Jules.
She placed the mug down, stepped toward me and said softly:
"What word?"
My hand trembled as I wrote it.
My name.
Her breath caught. She touched my shoulder, careful like I was made of something fragile but valuable. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered.
Heat gathered behind my eyes, sudden and overwhelming. I shook my head, and the tears slipped free anyway.
"It wasn't nothing," she said, brushing them away with her thumb. "It was everything."
Later, during my session with Dr. Leland, I typed it out:I said my name.
She smiled gently, "That's great April! Your own name," she said quietly. "That's not a small thing. That's the first word most people ever claim in their lives and you found it again."
I fidgeted with the corner of my sleeve, unsure how to hold the moment.
"That means," she continued, "that somewhere in you, there was enough safety to let yourself exist out loud. Even for just a breath. Your body found a moment strong enough to override the freeze response. That's progress, April. Real progress."
Progress. The word felt like it didn't belong to me, like I was borrowing it from someone stronger.
Dr. Leland continued, "Today, I'd like to introduce something called interoceptive exposure. It helps retrain your nervous system to tolerate the sensations that come before speech—the flutter in the throat, the tension in the diaphragm. You don't need to speak. Just notice."
Notice. I could do that.
"Put one hand on your throat," she said.
I did. My pulse was fluttery beneath my fingers, like something caged.
"Now breathe in for three, out for five."
I followed the counts, the exhale longer and trembling, but still mine. As I breathed, something loosened, like the trapdoor inside me cracked open a fraction. As the exercise settled into a quiet rhythm, Dr. Leland watched me with that steady, non-intrusive focus she always had. When I dropped my hand back into my lap, she spoke gently.
"April," she said, "your body can unlearn Selective Mutism. You're already doing that. Today proves it. The name you said... the breathing you just did... these are signs that your system is slowly tolerating more. But I want you to remember that your body is not your enemy, it just learned to protect you in the best way it knew how."
I let that sink in.Be kind to myself,I reminded myself.Be patient.
