Page 2 of Coming Home

Camilla set her pen down. "Emma, look at me." I raised my eyes. "What you just did, naming those things out loud to another human being? That is massive progress."

"Doesn't feel like progress."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like I just compiled a highly organized, bulleted list of reasons to give up."

She didn't offer a hollow, reassuring smile. Instead, her gaze sharpened. "What do you actually want, Emma?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Not what you think is realistic, or safe, or what you think you deserve," she said, eyes locked on mine. "If I could wave a wand and hand you anything right now, what do you want?"

Outside, the distant hum of traffic and the muffled, rhythmic bass of a car stereo three floors down vibrated through the glass.

I tried to answer. Nothing came.

"I don't know."

Camilla didn't break eye contact.

"That's not a cop-out," I insisted, my thumb tracing my knuckle. "I don't know. I don't think I want anything anymore." I stared at the floor between my feet. "I used to lie in bed at night making these massive, ridiculous plans. What I'd do after the next Olympic cycle, where I'd travel, who I was going to be. I used to fall asleep excited. Can you imagine that? Being excited about tomorrow?" I let out a tired laugh. "Now, I can't even answer a basic question in therapy."

I rubbed my palms against my jeans.

"And that scares me more than the depression. Because failure at least means you tried. It means you aimed for something and missed. I haven't aimed for anything in years. I just exist. I wake up, I clear the day, I go to sleep, and none of it matters."

Camilla's expression remained grounded, patient but never patronizing. She'd mapped this exact terrain a thousand times over, and knew where the path went even when they couldn't see it.

"Apathy feels a lot like peace when you're in survival mode," she said. "It feels like the hurting has stopped. But that peace isn't real. Your mind just goes quiet, because feeling had become too much to carry." Camilla crossed one ankle over the other. "And yet you walked through my door today. You sat down, you felt the pain, you cried. Those aren't the actions of a ghost, Emma. You're still fighting. You just can't see it in yourself yet."

I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, knowing my mascara was a smeared disaster. Not that it mattered. I couldn't remember the last time I cared about what a mirror had to say.

"I'm pretty sure crying in front of a stranger doesn't count as winning," I muttered.

"It counts more than you think."

She held my gaze until I had to look away, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt into a wrinkled knot.

Camilla straightened up, clicking her pen back into place. "Here's your homework for the week. One thing. Just one. Something you used to love. It doesn't have to be big, and it doesn't have to involve a pool. A song you used to play on repeat. A food you loved. A walk somewhere with a view. Just experience it, and try not to judge yourself while you do. Can you do that?"

I nodded.

I wasn't going to do it. We both knew it. But the assignment was given, the hour was up, and surviving forty-five minutes in this warm room without dissolving felt like enough of a victory for a Wednesday.

We did the polite, professional handshake. Same time next week. See you then.

The hallway outside her office was long, beige, and quiet, smelling faintly of warm copier toner. I caught my reflection in the window at the end of the hall and looked down. I'd learned not to linger on my own face.

I used to wear ridiculous disguises to appointments. Giant sunglasses, baseball caps pulled low, hair tucked away. Back when I had a face people recognized. Back when a stranger at the grocery store might tap my shoulder and ask if I was that Emma, the girl who broke two world records.

I didn't need the disguises anymore.

Waiting for the elevator, I leaned against the wall, listening to the cables groan behind the drywall. A woman in a sharp gray blazer hurried past without glancing up. A guy in scrubs stepped out of a nearby door, laughing into his phone. Neither of them looked at me. Nobody ever did.

The elevator dinged, and I rode it down to the lobby alone.

The ground floor was aggressive glass and white tile, a building that wanted to be important but settled for dental offices and therapists. I was digging through my oversized bag for my keys, heading for the exit, when I saw him.