FEARFULLY YOURS

There was always something about silence that comforted Amira—until it was filled with expectation. It was the kind of silence that lingered after someone leaned in. After they tilted their head just enough, letting their breath brush her cheek. After a hand ghosted over hers, or a heartbeat got too close. That silence? It didn't soothe her. It strangled her. She’d learned how to survive it. By pulling away before it could happen. By smiling and making excuses. By changing the subject. Sometimes, she even laughed, just to mask the sheer panic blooming in her chest like a violent flower. Her exes used to call it “emotional distance,” as if it were a choice. As if Amira wanted to be this way. But it wasn’t a choice. It was survival. Conditioned into her bones, trained into her breath, stitched into her skin. So, she remained untouched. In New York City, that was rare—like living underwater in a world on fire. She watched couples kiss at crosswalks, grind against each other in clubs, slide into each other's lives as if trust were just a swipe away. But for Amira, intimacy was a battlefield without a weapon. And she always lost. Her longest relationship lasted three months. No one made it past month four. Because eventually, every man asked the same question. Why don’t you ever kiss me? And Amira always answered the same way. I don’t know how to explain it. They never stayed after that. She had just turned twenty-eight when her older sister said it over brunch. “You’re beautiful, smart, and emotionally unavailable. That’s not a personality, Amira. That’s trauma.” Amira remembered choking on her mimosa. “Wow, thanks for the diagnosis,” she’d muttered. “I’m serious.” Lena had leaned closer, lowering her voice like they were sharing a secret. “I think you should see someone.” The word made her flinch. See someone. She hadn’t “seen” anyone in months. She worked in publishing, read manuscripts by day, curled into oversized sweaters by night, and avoided touch like it burned. She didn’t want to unravel in front of a stranger. Didn’t want to explain that even the idea of a kiss felt like drowning. But Lena wouldn’t let it go. She showed up the next weekend with a list of trauma-informed consultants, speaking in that overly gentle voice reserved for addicts or fragile glass. Amira wanted to be angry. She wanted to scream. Instead, she found herself staring at the third name on the list, her thumb hovering over it. Dr. Elias Cade Specialist in somatic therapy, trauma recovery, and cognitive behavior restructuring. Office: 56th Street, Manhattan. Something about the name pulled at her. It wasn’t medical. It wasn’t cold. And maybe—just maybe—she was tired of surviving. So, she booked a session. Just one. --- The waiting room was too quiet. That was the first thing she noticed. A quiet that didn’t buzz like hospitals or reek of disinfectant. The walls were a warm sand color, and there were no ticking clocks. No magazines. Just a diffuser humming in the corner, filling the air with soft lavender. Her fingers were clenched around her phone when the door opened. “Amira?” came a voice. Low. Smooth. Unrushed. She turned. And for a full second, forgot to breathe. He wasn’t what she expected. Tall, mid-thirties maybe, with dark hair swept back from his forehead and eyes that didn’t pierce—but invited. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, exposing forearms inked with fine script. Not the kind of ink that screamed rebellion—but something more personal, something like pain turned into poetry. “Come in,” he said, gently. She followed him like someone half-awake, her mind already building walls. He was too handsome. Too composed. She hated that. She hated that he didn’t look like the sterile, silver-haired therapist she'd pictured. It would’ve been easier if he did. Then she wouldn’t feel so seen. His office was different too. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Bookshelves filled not just with psychology texts but novels—actual fiction. A low leather couch, two armchairs, and a thick navy rug stretched beneath her feet like safety. Elias—he told her to call him that—didn’t ask about her childhood right away. He didn’t pull out a clipboard. Didn’t wear glasses he’d push up his nose as he dissected her trauma under fluorescent lights. Instead, he sat across from her and asked, “What made you walk in here today?” Amira wanted to lie. She wanted to say something clever or dismissive. But his voice wasn’t judgmental. It was quiet jazz, like the background noise in a Brooklyn cafe when it’s raining. So she told him the truth. “I can’t kiss anyone.” Elias blinked. “You mean you haven’t?” “No. I mean—I can’t. Every time someone tries… my body locks up. My chest tightens. I can’t breathe.” He didn’t write anything down. He didn’t frown. He just nodded. Slowly. And then he said something that lodged in her ribs. “Thank you for telling me that.” Not what happened to you. Not how long has this been going on. Just thank you. Amira exhaled. Something in her loosened. Not all of it. But enough. Enough to come back. --- The second session, she talked about middle school. About how the first boy who tried to kiss her shoved her into a corner behind the gym. How she froze. How he laughed. How no one believed her when she said it wasn’t funny. The third session, she cried. Not loud sobs. Just tears that slipped down like secrets she hadn’t meant to say out loud. Elias never filled her silences. He let them live. Let them breathe. Sometimes, he guided her through breathing techniques. Sometimes, he just let her sit with the memory until it lost its teeth. She was never touched. Never pressured. Never pitied. And that terrified her more than anything. Because for the first time in her life, she wasn’t just seen. She was safe. And the thought that scared her even more? She liked how that felt—when he was the one seeing her. --- Three months in, something shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No sudden declarations or slow-motion glances. It was in the way her body responded when he said her name. It was in the warmth that rose in her chest when she noticed the tiny scar near his temple, or the way his smile curved when she made a rare joke. It was the fact that when she walked out of his office into the busy Manhattan streets, she didn’t feel invisible anymore. She felt like a woman waking up. --- But healing wasn’t about falling. It wasn’t about romanticizing the man who helped her face the dark. It was about choosing. And the hardest choice of all wasn’t letting someone in. It was learning to believe that she was worth staying for. Even if the only person staying… was herself. ---