Page 428 of Power Play

Admitting it brings a strange relief.

“I don’t miss waiting for my father to tell me what I’ve done wrong. I don’t miss my mother looking at my clothes, my face, or my body before deciding whether I’m presentable. I don’t miss feeling like every conversation is a test I’ve already failed.”

My hands tighten together.

“I miss Ryan.”

The tears spill before I can stop them.

“I miss his taste and the way his hand felt around mine. I miss his voice when he spoke Spanish and the look on his face when he forgot he was trying to hide how much something mattered. I miss reading beside him. I miss waking up in his bed. I miss the way he looked at me before I gave him a reason to stop.”

My breathing turns uneven, and the counselor reminds me to slow it down. I inhale through my nose and release the breath through my mouth the way they taught me.

It doesn’t stop the grief, but it keeps me inside the room.

“I miss every part of him. I keep wanting to believe nobody could understand how lonely it is to miss someone this much, but I know that isn’t true. Everyone in this room is missing something.”

Luke looks down at his folded hands.

“When I woke up this morning, I heard a song in my head. I was in the shower, and it kept playing even though there wasn’t any music. It’s called ‘Willing and Able.’ I’ve always loved Noah Kahan, but today the song felt different.”

The counselor waits.

“It felt like it belonged to Ryan. The meaning made me understand how badly I hurt him. He was willing to love me through every fear and every ugly part I let him see. He kept asking me to meet him somewhere outside the cage, and I wanted to believe I was able to do it.”

I wipe my cheeks, but more tears replace the ones I catch.

“I wasn’t. When the moment came, I left him standing alone.”

Nobody tells me I’m being too hard on myself. Nobody rushes to explain my childhood or remind me that a trauma response isn’t a deliberate choice. Those things are true, but they don’t change the experience Ryan carried out of my father’s house.

“I don’t know how to love him without making him responsible for whether I feel safe, beautiful, or worthy. That isn’t fair to him. I made his love do work that belonged to me. I expected the way he saw me to overpower the way I saw myself, then panicked every time it couldn’t.”

The admission settles into me.

“I still love him. I don’t know how to stop, and part of me doesn’t want to. I also know that missing him can’t become another excuse to avoid getting healthy. I can’t eat because I hope he’ll come back. I can’t gain weight because I want him to find me beautiful again. I have to do it because I want to live, even if I leave here and Ryan never speaks to me.”

My voice collapses around the final words.

“I don’t know how to want that life yet, but I’m trying.”

Silence fills the room. My eyes remain on my empty fingers. I didn’t think I had any tears left, so it surprises me every time more appear.

“I think that’s all I can say.”

“That was a great deal, Charm,” the counselor says gently.

I return to my chair, and Luke hands me the box of tissues. A bandage wraps one of his wrists beneath the sleeve of his sweatshirt. I know enough about treatment now to understand that everyone here carries stories they aren’t required to explain before offering kindness.

“Thank you.”

He nods. Luke lost his little son at a birthday party held at a public pool. He looked away for one moment before alarms sounded and people pulled his child from the water.

Luke can never get his son back.

For one terrible second, shame tells me my grief is pathetic beside his. Ryan is alive. Somewhere outside this place, he is breathing, recovering, and building a life. My loss came from decisions, boundaries, and damage people might believe could still be repaired. Luke’s loss has no door anyone can reopen.

Then I remember what the counselor told us during my first week.