Page 12 of Letters From A Stalker

Her response comes with a laugh in the background.

“Congratulations, you found your people. Wear the washed-out jeans that make your ass look good, the white tank, and that soft blue sweater I gave you. You’ll feel comfortable, but not like you gave up on life. Then get your ass out the door before you find a Reddit thread convincing you therapy is government surveillance.”

I smile despite the tension sitting low in my stomach.

“You only gave me that sweater because it was too small for you.”

“I gave it to you because it looks better on you, and I’m secure enough to admit that. Also, if the therapist is hot, you’re welcome.”

“Tessa.”

“What? You didn’t Google him?”

“No.”

The answer leaves my mouth before I think about it. I had considered it. Last night, after the panic settled and sleep refused to come, I opened my laptop and typed his name into the search bar. The results page appeared before I could decide whether I actually wanted to know anything about him.

Dr. Kai Blackwood. Psychiatry. Trauma and complex loss. A few professional listings and articles about community mental health work connected to Pine Ridge. No photographs appeared immediately, and I closed the laptop before I could search harder. Tessa found this strange when I told her. I found it necessary. If I was going to sit in front of a stranger and explain things I had spent years hiding from people who loved me, it seemed only fair that he remained a stranger until the moment I walked into his office. Or maybe I did not want another excuse to cancel. Either way, I know almost nothing about him beyond his credentials and the fact that the reviews describe him as direct, calm, and annoyingly perceptive. The last one should have frightened me more. Instead, it made me book the appointment.

“I love you,” Tessa says in her final voice note. “Go to work, wear the sweater later, and text me when you’re done. You don’t have to be good at therapy. You just have to show up.”

I hold the phone against my chest for a second before setting it beside me.

Showing up has never been the hard part. I have shown up for funerals, police interviews, family disasters, work deadlines, and people who would not have crossed the street for me. I know how to arrive, how to organize, how to make myself useful enough that nobody notices what it costs. Sitting still while somebody looks directly at me is something else entirely.

Work gives me nine hours to avoid thinking about it. The law firm occupies three floors of a glass building in downtown Minneapolis, where everything smells faintly of coffee, printer toner, and expensive perfume.

By eight fifteen, I am at my desk answering emails, moving meetings, and correcting a filing error nobody else noticed because being useful comes more naturally than breathing. Nobody mentions the trip. Nobody knows about what happened on the bus. That should make me feel relieved, but instead it reminds me how easy it is to carry something catastrophic into a room without changing the way anybody sees you.

At ten, one of the junior associates asks whether I can rearrange his entire afternoon because he forgot about a client call.

“Of course,” I say before he finishes explaining.

At eleven thirty, I rewrote an email three times because the first version sounds too demanding, even though I am asking someone to complete a task they were supposed to finish yesterday. At lunch, I apologized to the woman behind the counter because I changed my soup order after she had already entered it into the register.

By three, my shoulders ache from me holding my body so straight you could put a quarter between my shoulderblades and it would stay there, and the reminder for my appointment appears again. This time, I didn’t swipe it away.

I leave the office at three fifteen, change in the restroom before I go, and follow Tessa’s instructions with the kind of obedience I would deny under oath. The faded jeans fit comfortably without making me feel shapeless, the white tank sits beneath the blue sweater, and the soft fabric settles around my shoulders like something familiar enough to trust. I remove my blazer, fold it into my bag, and study myself beneath the harsh restroom lighting. I look ordinary. That helps.

The drive takes less than twenty minutes, which feels suspicious considering Minneapolis traffic usually treats punctuality as a personal challenge. Every light turns green before I reach it. There is no construction, no accident, no sudden road closure offering me a respectable excuse to miss the appointment.

When I pull into the patient parking area, I am fourteen minutes early.

I remain behind the wheel, both hands still on the steering wheel, listening to the engine cool, contemplating getting out of my car.I could leave. The thought arrives calmly, almost reasonably. Nobody would stop me. I could send an apologetic email, say something came up at work, and reschedule for a week from now. By then, the panic attack might feel farther away. The bite mark would fade. Tessa would be annoyed, but she would forgive me. There is always another day to become brave.

The problem is that I have lived most of my life that way. Later. When things calm down. When I have more time. When the pain is easier to explain. Only it never gets easier. It just closes the space around me and makes it that much harder to breathe.

I climb out of my car before the argument of skipping therapy can continue. The building is taller than I expected, all polished glass and dark stone, the kind of place where even the lobby furniture looks expensive enough to judge you. The elevator waits open on the parking level as if the universe has decided subtlety is unnecessary.

“Of course,” I mutter as I step inside.

The doors close, and I press the button for the twenty-fourth floor. My reflection appears in the mirrored panel beside the controls. I adjust the strap of my bag, then stop when I realize I am making myself smaller without thinking, shoulders curved inward and elbows tucked close to my sides. I immediately straighten myself. The movement feels unnatural. By the time the elevator opens, my stomach has tightened into something dense and cold. The hallway is quiet, with polished floors and soft lighting that makes every footstep sound more deliberate than it is. At the far end sits a pair of heavy oak doors carrying matte black lettering across the glass.

Dr. Kai Blackwood

Trauma, Grief, and Complex Loss

I stare at the words complex loss longer than necessary. Such an elegant phrase for something so ugly. It makes grief sound layered and intelligent rather than like a dead man managing to ruin your birthday from beyond the grave. I adjust my bag again and push open the door.