“You deserve a quiet that doesn’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my voice flat so it doesn’t show the fury in my chest. Not at her. It’s never at her.
My timer ticks us into eight minutes. “You still want me to go?” I ask, knowing she deserves to set her own boundaries.
She looks at me like I’ll answer for her, but this is her choice. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then…let’s find a want that’s simple and small and easy to do.” I point across the lawn at the student union. “There’s a couch in the quiet lounge. No one will bother you there. We can just sit. You can relax. I’ll text the girls to meet us later if you decide you want them there. If you don’t wantcompany, or you don’t want me to stay…I’ll just make sure someone is here with you, who you trust.
She stares at me, debating it all in her head. “Okay,” she says finally, so softly I almost miss it. “I want the couch.”
We stand, and she sways before I offer my arm to steady her. She takes it and lets me guide us toward the door. Inside, I keep a little distance at first, wanting her to feel comfortable. We claim the little corner in the back, and then I make sure it’s okay with Lydia before I shoot a text to Lani.
Bash: I’m with her. She’s safe. She’s exhausted. We’re at the lounge in the union. Can you and Simone come in a little? She said it’s okay
Lani responds in less than two seconds.
Lani: On our way with snacks/water. No questions. Tell her we love her
“You ready for them?” I ask out loud, showing her my phone.
She bites her lip, then nods. “Yeah,” she says, all tiny. “I don’t…I don’t really want to hide from them.”
“I’m proud of you,” I say, and she rolls her eyes like the words embarrass her.
I take off my hoodie and hand it over. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m always shaking,” she mutters, but she puts it on. It’s too big, and it looks just right on her. She tucks her hands into the sleeves and breathes into the fabric like it’s an inhaler.
“Can I sit?” I ask.
She nods.
She doesn’t lean in immediately, and I don’t ask her to, even though I want to. I want to touch her. I want to comfort her. I want to take her pain away.
We just sit with a couple of inches of space that feels like a mile between us. I can hear the thud of someone’s speaker through the wall. I can hear all the thoughts clouding her mind. I can hear my own heartbeat wanting to make its way out of my chest and go to her.
“Want to talk, or just enjoy the silence?” I ask. “Both options are available.”
She tilts her head back against the sofa and closes her eyes. “I wish I could be a different person,” she says to the ceiling.
“I get that,” I say.
Her laugh sounds like a hiccup. “You’re supposed to say something like ‘you are who you are, and you are enough,’” she says, mocking the voice of a stereotypical therapist.
“You are who you are, and you are enough,” I reply in a flat tone, then I smile. “Also, wanting to be a different person does not make you ungrateful for the progress. It makes you honest about the things that still hurt.”
She looks at me, eyes weary. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
“Because shame is doing that job loud enough,” I tell her. “And because I’m just not. Relapse isn’t the end of the world.”
“I want to sleep for a week straight and wake up with a new brain.”
“Sleep is allowed,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t have a week’s worth of couch, but I’ve got right now.”
She makes a little sound that’s half a scoff, half a cry, and then she moves into me. It’s not graceful or planned, just her collapsing, and I’m ready for it. One second, there’s space between us, the next, she’s folded into my chest like it’s where she’s deciding to safely land. My arms go around her automatically, but carefully. She is all sharp bones and body heat and a heavy tiredness.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my shirt, and I feel the tears soaking through. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You do not owe me an apology,” I tell her as she buries her face into my shirt.
