BOUND BY THE SESSION

Chapter 2 | Bruised Mornings

Leona’s POV

The alarm went off like a siren, shrill and unforgiving. 5:00 AM.

I slapped at my phone in the dark and managed to knock over a glass of water instead. Ice-cold splash. Great. Stellar start.

I lay there for a second, shirt damp against my chest, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling above my bed. Thin lines from old leaks, water damage, and time—just like me. Sunlight bled through the plastic blinds, cutting my room into dusty gray bars.

Tuesday.

Therapy day.

Just the thought sent something sharp fluttering through my gut.

My appointment wasn’t until ten. I had a full shift to crawl through first—behind the bar at the indie café I’d worked at for the last eight months. Somehow I hadn’t gotten fired yet. Probably because Marion, my boss, understood that I was a little… off.

She didn’t ask questions when I disappeared into the back room to shake through a panic attack. She just took over the register like it was normal, like I wasn’t on the verge of coming apart.

But the day everything spiraled—when a customer yelled at me and his voice, his face, dragged a memory I didn’t want—was the day she said, kindly but firmly, “You need help.”

And that’s how I ended up in a therapist’s office instead of a hospital.

I sat up slowly, peeling the damp t-shirt from my skin. The nightmares had been bad again—faceless shadows, locked rooms, breathless drowning.

Except last night, something new had joined them.

Golden eyes. Watching. Not judging—just seeing. Everything.

I padded to the bathroom, the floor cold under my bare feet. Tried to keep quiet, though it didn’t matter. Zoe, my roommate, could sleep through fire alarms and a full-blown war.

Except the door was locked.

“Zoe?” I knocked, gently at first. “I need to shower. I work soon.”

Nothing.

I knocked harder. “Zoe, come on. I have to be out the door in an hour.”

A low groan from the other side, followed by, “Jesus, Leona, it’s barely morning. Some of us were working last night.”

“Working” was what she called coming home at 3:00 AM smelling like tequila and a Tinder match.

When the door finally creaked open, steam poured out and Zoe stood there, wrapped in a towel, looking both miserable and stupidly beautiful. Even hungover with raccoon eyes, she could’ve walked into a modeling agency and walked out with a contract.

“The hot water’s gone anyway,” she said flatly, brushing past me.

Of course it was.

I stepped into the disaster zone of a bathroom—makeup smeared on the mirror, wet towels forming a moldy mountain on the floor, hair everywhere—and took the coldest shower of my life. It wasn’t pleasant, but it did jolt the nightmares out of my system.

By the time I was dressed in my black tee and jeans, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Pale skin, wide blue eyes that always looked on the edge of startled. My chestnut hair hung loose, frizzed from the cold shower. I avoided looking at the scar slicing through my left brow, but my eyes lingered on it anyway.

I stood there too long. Again.

The kitchen wasn’t any better—sink overflowing with dishes, wine bottles crowding the counter like a frat party, a half-eaten pizza growing something green in the corner.

I swiped a granola bar from behind the cereal boxes and filled my travel mug with tap water. I’d wait for caffeine at work.

As I turned to go, Zoe slunk into the kitchen, wearing only an oversized tee and yesterday’s eyeliner.

“Did you use my shampoo again?” she asked, blinking at the light like it owed her money.

I bit down on every comeback threatening to spill out.

My money paid for that shampoo.

My money kept this apartment going while she brought home losers and burned through paychecks on drinks and dresses.

But instead, I said, “I’ll grab some after work.”

She pulled the OJ from the fridge—also mine—and drank from the carton.

“Oh, by the way,” she said between gulps, “Kyle’s staying for a bit.”

“Who the hell is Kyle?”

“The guy from last night.” She leaned on the counter like this was casual. “His roommate’s girl moved in, so he needs a couch until he figures something out.”

“Zoe, we don’t have space—”

“He’ll be in my room.” She rolled her eyes, clearly exhausted by my very existence. “It’s not like I’m asking to crash in your precious trauma cave.”

No, just hog the bathroom. And the kitchen. And the paper-thin living room I sometimes curled up in when the memories got too loud for my own bed.

“How long is ‘a bit’?” I asked, knowing this was already lost.

“I don’t know, Leona. God, why do you always make everything so dramatic? You’re barely here.” Her voice turned sharper, like she was waiting for a reason to bite. “Always at work or hiding in your room like some wounded animal.”

That was my cue. The pressure in my chest had already started to climb.

“Whatever,” I muttered, grabbing my bag.

She didn’t let it go.

“That’s your whole problem, you know?” she called after me. “You let people walk all over you. And then you act surprised when they do.”

I shut the door before she could hit the nerve any harder.

But her voice followed me down the stairwell like a ghost that wouldn’t let go.

The air outside was sharp and wet, the kind of early spring morning that smelled like rain and new beginnings. I walked fast, fists clenched in my sleeves, pushing breath out in slow counts until my chest didn’t feel like it was caving in.

By the time I reached the café, the worst of it had passed.

Marion was already there, prepping muffins in the case with the kind of steady energy only a 6:00 AM coffee witch could pull off.

“Morning, sunshine,” she called.

“Morning,” I mumbled, dropping my bag and grabbing my apron.

“Rough night?”

“Rough roommate.”

“She still treating you like crap?”

I shrugged. “It’s fine.” I started wiping the espresso machine that didn’t need wiping.

“You know,” she said, “my niece finally moved out. Spare room’s collecting dust. You’d have real hot water.”

The offer hit me like a soft slap. I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to say yes.

“I can’t impose on you,” I said.

Marion gave me the look—the kind that said she’d been around the block and didn’t buy my bullshit for a second. “It’s not imposing when I offer.”

Before I could deflect again, the regulars started rolling in.

And with them, the rhythm of my morning: espresso grind, steam hiss, cup sleeve, smile (or something close to one).

I stayed busy. Safe. Until around 9:30.

That’s when the clock caught my eye, and with it, the tight, fluttery thing in my stomach returned.

“I’ve got it,” Marion said gently. “Go do your thing.”

“I can stay a little longer—”

“Nope.” She pointed toward the back. “Go. You’ve got healing to do or whatever.”

She didn’t know it was therapy. Just that I had “appointments.” I let her believe whatever made sense.

In the staff bathroom, I changed into a soft gray sweater, tugged a brush through my tangled hair, and tried to convince myself this wasn’t a date.

It was therapy.

Just therapy.

Still… I applied a swipe of lip balm.

The walk to his office was ten blocks of nerves and denial. My thoughts kept drifting back to Friday—to his voice, to the way he’d said my name like it was something expensive.

It was ridiculous.

A crush. A fantasy.

Google had a name for it: transference. When a patient starts falling for their therapist.

Classic.

And yet…

As the elevator rose to the fifth floor and my heartbeat picked up, I knew I was in trouble.

Because for the first time in years…

I actually wanted to be seen.

And that was far more terrifying than being invisible.