I didn’t want to go.
The morning of my first official therapy session, I sat on the edge of the bed with cold coffee in my hands and a mind that wouldn’t stop spinning. I’d barely slept. The nightmares had scraped their claws down my spine until I woke up breathless, clutching Adrian’s side like he was the only thing keeping me from slipping into the dark.
He wanted to come with me. I told him no.
It was something I needed to do on my own—or at least that’s what I said. What I didn’t say was that I was afraid. Afraid of what he’d hear. Afraid of how he’d look at me after I let someone else see all the broken, sharp pieces of me.
The office was warm. Maybe a little too warm, but cozy in that deliberate way, like a study room in an old house—quiet and lived-in. The walls were lined with
