Drasa POV
The therapist card was still on my desk in my room. I hadn’t thrown it away, I also hadn’t called.
Every morning I’d wake up, stare at it while brushing my hair or pulling on my shirt, and tell myself, “You’re fine, Drasa. You made it through. You don’t need therapy. You just need time.”
Time hadn’t fixed much, I still flinched whenever someone tapped me from behind. I still avoided crowded places and fast-moving shadows.
And every time someone laughed too loudly behind me, my stomach flipped like it expected something bad.
I told myself I was okay. Because saying “I’m healing” sounded too fragile.
“You're going to call that therapist right?” Maya said as she stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hair.
I looked at the card one last time before shoving it into the drawer
