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There are a million things I want to say right now. I want to tell her that she is most definitelynot21 but that she is actually a year older. I want to tell her that her real birthday is October 31st and that it's one of her favorite days.Used to be, I remind myself. It's not anymore because of the memories attached to why that was her favorite day, besides the fact that it is her birthday, are memories that she lost and I can't give them back no matter how badly I want to.
Turning back to the computer screens, I say nothing as I work to regain my composure. The room fills with awkward silence and I will myself to come up with something, anything, to say that will regain our easy comradery from before.
“Did you ever take any foreign languages in school?” I ask nonchalantly, my voice still thick with suppressed emotions.
“Actually yes. I didn’t take Spanish like most of my classmates because it’s one of the random things I’ve retained from before my accident. I’m not super fluent but I can understand it well and can respond to most things. I just struggle with speed.” I swallow hard as I try to hide my reaction to her statement. Spanish is somethingItaught her, and I immediately want to know if that’s why she somehow remembers the skill.
Stupid. That can’t be why. She doesn’t even remember me.
”¿Qué idioma tomaste?” Ella gasps out a sound of shock at my question and I can’t help but laugh.
”¿Hablas español también? Te enseñaron los chicos?” She responds and my head shoots back in her direction.
“Your conversation skills are perfect and so is your dialect,” I grin and nod in approval. I’m feeling oddly proud of her right now. She always did pick things up quickly. “Yeah, the guys taught me. You didn’t answer my question though.”
“J’ai pris des cours de français à l’école.”Fuck, hearing her speak both Spanish and French like this has my hard cock even fucking harder. I never thought I would have her back, nor did I think that I would get to hear her speak this way again. My brilliant girl used to mix dialects and languages fluently and it has never ceased to amaze me.
Clearly, it still fucking doesn’t.
Intelligence has always been an attractive quality to me. One would assume it’s because of my own IQ, but right now, being with her and seeing her like this, I know that’s not the case.
It’s her.
It’s always fucking beenher.
“Pourquoi le français ?” I ask, returning back to my programming. I’m almost fucking done. I was debating the next part of our night but right now,thishas solidified what I want to show her.
“For some reason, I’ve always been drawn to the language. I excelled in the courses and worked my way up to the highest level by Junior year.” She shrugs in modesty like it’s not a big achievement.
I can tell she has had little to no praise for her accomplishments. Again, I understand because it was the same for me. My parents weren’t going to put my report cards on the fridge and Augustus Luna certainly wasn’t going to give me a pat on the back. But everyone needs validation.
Everyone.
“You are extremely smart, Isabella and your intelligence and accomplishments are incredible. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently.”
I finish coding the program and save all of the changes before powering down the computer. I look back at her in time to see her tucking her hair behind her ear, exposing the small scar that goes from her brow to her forehead. Her face is bright pink, covered in a beautiful blush.
“Thank you,” she whispers. I grin and stand, forcing her to take a few steps back. I settle my ass on the edge of the desk and cross my arms, waiting for her to look up at me. When she does, I get to it.
“Earlier, you said your anxiety was bad and you felt that the rope might help you.” She goes to open her mouth but I shake my head, stopping her. “It’s okay. I said I wasn’t mad and I meant it. But I want to talk to you about something and then, I want to take you somewhere. If you’re interested, I think that this will help you but we need to have an open and honest conversation first. I know that’s hard for you and I understand that because those things are very difficult for me as well. But if you allow yourself to be vulnerable, right now, in this space with me, I promise to keep you safe and to help you if I can. You have to let me in though. Can you do that?”
I practically hold my breath while waiting for her answer. She stares at me, wide-eyed and nervous. Her hands are restlessly tapping against her thighs, she’s biting that tempting fucking lower lip, and I can tell her body is trembling slightly, though she tries to hide it. Finally, after an extremely long two minutes, she nods.
“Words, Isabella. If we’re going to do this, I need your words. Every time.”
“Yes, I trust you,” she whispers, her head bobbing up and down. Normally, I don’t allow whispers for consent, but I’ll take it because I know this is a lot of her.
“Good girl, thank you, I appreciate that. First things first. When we are talking about your anxiety, I want us to work with a scale. Have you done that before in therapy?” She shakes her head no. “Okay, so the one that I learned to work with is numbered. Children sometimes use a color chart but that’s not necessary and it may actually get confusing down the road. Numbers are one through five. One being non-existent to minimal and five being debilitating and panic-inducing. With me so far?”
She nods, then corrects herself. “Yes, I’m with you.” I smile at her approvingly.
“One, being minimal, means you’re experiencing small worries but can still function normally, and physically you’re fine. Two is when you’re anxious occasionally, you may struggle to sleep, have issues with concentration, and are tense. Three would be anxious continually the entire day, issues with concentration, sleep, no appetite, you may have headaches or be jittery and likely very tired. Four is where things get more hectic. Your physical symptoms will change drastically. You may be dizzy, lightheaded, have a tight chest, inability to concentrate at all and you may even develop sensory overload. Five would be a full-on attack. You may feel paralyzed, cannot breathe, have obsessive thoughts or feel unable to continue. With me?”
Ella takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, taking in all of that information and probably reliving her recent panic attack. “Yes. But it may take a while for me to remember that. It’s a lot.”
“I’ll text you a chart and you can work on memorizing it. But the biggest thing is to know that one is your baseline and that five is what happened in the elevator. How frequently do you experience anxiety and panic?”
“Well when you break it down like that, with all those symptoms, I would say almost every day to some extent. The panic attacks are not that often anymore. I used to have them a lot after the accident but it got better until—” She breaks off and my hand darts out of its own accord. My finger runs across her cheek in an attempt to soothe her.
