But it already has, I think. I just haven’t figured out how to explain that the girl who tried to die eighteen months ago didn’t fully survive. Some essential part of me stayed in that bathtub with the cold water and the red and the relief.
The girl sitting here is a placeholder. A performance. Someone going through the motions of living while waiting to figure out if she actually wants to.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Unknown
Hi Maya, this is Dr. Williams’s office. We need to reschedule your Thursday appointment. The doctor had a family emergency. We can fit you in next Monday at 3pm or the following Thursday at your regular time. Please let us know which works.
I stare at the text, feeling something crack in my chest.
Thursday is in two days. Monday is almost a week away. A week without therapy. A week trying to handle the nightmares and the anxiety and the constant weight of pretending to be okay.
“What’s wrong?” Carter asks, reading my face.
I show him the text.
His jaw tightens. “Take the Monday appointment.”
“I have class.”
“Skip it.”
“Carter—”
“Maya, you need your therapy. Class can be made up.”
“It’s fine. I can wait until the following Thursday. It’s only two weeks instead of one?—”
“No.” His voice is firm. “You’re not going two weeks. Not with the nightmares back. Take Monday or I’m calling Dr. Williams myself and demanding they find an emergency slot.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
We stare at each other in the kind of sibling standoff that used to end with one of us backing down. But Carter doesn’t back down anymore. Not since he found me. Not since he spent three hours in an emergency room waiting to find out if his little sister would survive.
“Fine,” I say. “Monday at three.”
“Good.” He relaxes slightly. “Now eat your muffin before I do.”
I pick at the blueberry muffin he ordered for me, knowing he won’t stop watching until I eat at least half of it. This is what our relationship has become, constant monitoring disguised as concern, careful conversations that dance around the truth, the exhausting performance of convincing him I’m okay so he doesn’t worry himself sick.
“I should go,” I say after forcing down enough muffin to satisfy him. “I have an eight AM.”
“What class?”
“Intro to Psychology. Very ironic given my life.”
Carter actually smiles. “Learn anything useful?”
“Apparently I have every symptom of major depressive disorder with some PTSD sprinkled in for fun.”
“Maya—”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” I stand, grabbing my bag. “Go to practice. Score some goals. Do the hockey thing.”
“The hockey thing,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I love you.”
