Chapter Four: Boundaries
898 Words
The fox stayed on her nightstand.
Ari didn’t cuddle it, didn’t name it, didn’t carry it around like some of the other students did. But she didn’t give it back either. It was soft. Quiet. It didn’t ask anything of her.
Just like she liked it.
By the third day, she was already sick of being watched.
Everyone here smiled too much. Said things like “big feelings” and “safe space” and “would you like a cuddle?” as if that were normal. Ari felt like she was inside one long therapy commercial. Like she was on display. Like people were waiting for her to crack.
And if there was one thing Ari didn’t do, it was crack.
Jasper’s class was worse today. He wanted them to do something called "nonverbal trust building" with a partner—taking turns guiding each other through a short obstacle course while blindfolded.
Ari stared at the blindfold like it was a joke.
“You can pair with me,” Jasper offered gently. “Only if you’re comfortable.”
“I’m not,” she said flatly.
“You’re allowed to say no.”
That should have made it easier.
But it didn’t.
It made her angry.
Later, in the common room, Penny was coloring on the floor with her shoes off, humming to herself. Another Little lay nearby, snoring softly under a weighted blanket. The whole scene felt fake to Ari—like kids playing pretend. But the strange thing was... they weren’t pretending.
They really believed they were safe here.
They were so open. So trusting.
So stupid, Ari thought. If you let people see softness, they crush it.
She sat on the couch with a notebook, pretending to read.
Jasper walked in with a clipboard and addressed the room: “Group therapy in ten minutes in the Sun Room. Littles, undecideds, and caregivers welcome.”
Ari stood up.
She didn’t want therapy.
But she wanted answers. And maybe—just maybe—she wanted to prove to everyone that she didn’t belong here. That this was all a mistake.
She walked into the Sun Room and found a circle of cushions arranged beneath golden windows. A few others had already gathered—Penny, a shy boy in a hoodie named Max, and a stern older woman who looked like she’d never smiled in her life. Miss Eden sat at the front, barefoot, legs crossed, expression serene.
“Welcome,” she said. “Today, we’re talking about walls.”
Ari scoffed under her breath.
Miss Eden continued: “Not real ones. The ones we build inside. The ones we needed to survive.”
Ari felt her shoulders stiffen.
“But sometimes, we live behind those walls so long, we forget how to step out. And healing, here, means learning when to let someone in.”
Max raised his hand. “What if someone gets in and hurts you?”
Miss Eden nodded. “That’s why we build slowly. That’s why we create rules. And boundaries. And caregivers who respect them.”
She looked at Ari then. Not accusing. Just… seeing.
And Ari snapped.
“This is crap,” she said suddenly. “You think a ‘stuffie’ is going to fix trauma? You think calling someone Daddy and pretending to be five makes all the bad stuff go away?”
Silence fell across the room.
Penny looked startled. Max shrank into his hoodie.
But Eden didn’t flinch. “No,” she said softly. “But letting someone love the part of you that was never loved… that’s a start.”
Ari stood up. “I knew this place was fake. I’m not weak like the rest of you.”
She walked out, fast, heart pounding, vision blurred.
She didn’t get far.
Jasper was in the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Not angry. Not smug. Just waiting.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she snapped. “And I don’t need to be.”
He nodded. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
That surprised her. She was braced for scolding. For control.
“You didn’t embarrass yourself,” he added.
“Yes, I did.”
“No. You protected yourself. Like always.” He took a breath. “But Ari… there’s a difference between protecting yourself and punishing yourself.”
That landed too close to the truth.
She turned away.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to feel like a kid.”
“You don’t have to.”
She faced him again, anger morphing into something more raw. “But I was a kid. And no one gave a damn. No one showed up. No one tucked me in or told me I mattered.”
Jasper’s voice lowered. “That’s not your fault.”
“I know,” she said—but her voice cracked.
A pause.
Then: “Can I give you a hug?”
She hesitated. Her whole body screamed no.
But something inside her—quiet, wounded, tired—nodded.
Jasper stepped forward slowly, arms wide, giving her space to change her mind.
She didn’t.
He wrapped her in a firm, warm hug. Not too tight. Not controlling. Just… steady.
And for the first time in years, Ari let someone hold her.
She didn’t cry.
But she didn’t pull away either.
- Writer
