It took me two more days to actually speak in group.
Every time the circle of chairs filled up—with soft-spoken women and over-eager counselors—I felt like I was drowning in silence.
Everyone had these stories, like chapters from books that already had endings.
Mine still felt like the middle.
The bleeding part, before the page turns.
The therapist was a woman named Carla. She wore reading glasses low on her nose and always smelled faintly of cinnamon. She didn’t push me. But she watched me—closely. Like she knew something was building.
And during the fourth session, I cracked.
Sardine sat next to me, chewing gum like always, her knee bouncing with nervous energy. When it was her turn to speak, she talked about her ex again. But something about the way she said it this time undid me
