bloom in darkness

PRESENT DAY

Dr. Rowan’s Office

I sit on the old but new looking chair

He sits across the room from me.

We sit in silence.

“Do you want to talk about anything in particular today?” he finally asks.

I shrug.

“That’s fine,” he says softly. “We can just sit here.”

There are so many things I want to say.

I want to scream.

But I don’t know how.

And some things… I’m just too afraid to say.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep the floodgates sealed.

My chest feels tight—like if I open my mouth, everything I’ve buried will come rushing out and drown me.

The clock ticks.

Once. Twice. Too loud.

I stare at my hands, tracing the faint scar along my thumb.

That’s where it always starts—the memories. The small things. The ones that sneak in when I’m trying not to think at all.

And before I can stop it, I’m there again.

Back in that room.

Back where it all began.

Flashback

I’m small again.

Bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

The air smells like burnt coffee and something sharp—anger, maybe.

They’re fighting again.

Mom’s voice cuts through the walls, sharp and shaking.

Dad’s deeper, harder to make out—thunder rolling beneath her words.

A door slams.

Then another.

Something glass hits the counter and shatters.

I stand in the hallway, hands pressed over my ears, but it doesn’t help. The sound still finds me—every word, every crash.

“Go ahead and leave then!” he shouts.

Her voice cracks when she answers, “Maybe I will!”

The silence that follows feels worse than the yelling. It’s heavy. Waiting.

I remember thinking that if I could just be quiet enough, maybe they’d stop.

Maybe they’d forget I was there.

But then Mom’s footsteps come closer—fast and uneven.

She grabs her keys, her purse—the world shaking around her.

And all I can do is stare at the front door, hoping she won’t actually open it this time.

“Let’s go,” she snaps, her voice sharp like broken glass.

Her eyes cut across the room, daggers aimed at Dad.

My stomach twists.

She doesn’t look at me when she says it again.

“Come on, Dehlia. Now.”

We end up where we always end up—the trailer.

I can still smell it even now: mildew, sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume.

People shouting, laughing too loud, music shaking the floor.

I used to sit in the corner and wish I could disappear.

Just watch. Just breathe.

I never felt safe there.

Present -

I press my eyes shut tight, forcing myself back to the office.

The trailer fades—the voices, the smell, the noise—all swallowed by silence.

When I open my eyes, the light is softer here.

The clock ticks steady on the wall.

Dr. Rowan is still sitting across from me, calm, patient, like he’s been waiting the whole time.

I swallow hard, throat dry. My hands are clenched in my lap.

I don’t even remember doing that.

He tilts his head slightly. “You went somewhere just now.”

I nod, but I can’t meet his eyes.

“Where?” he asks gently—like if he’s soft enough, I’ll drop my guard.

But I don’t.

I stare at the floor, counting the lines in the wood instead of looking at him.

It’s safer that way—to stay here, in the silence, where nothing can slip out.

The air feels thick, like even breathing too loud might give me away.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t push. He just waits.

And somehow, that’s harder to fight than the yelling I grew up with.

Because silence has a way of undoing me.

I pick at the hem of my sleeve, wishing I could unzip my skin and step out of it for a minute—anything to stop feeling like I’m about to crack open.

He closes his notebook, the sound soft but final.

“Same time next week?” he says, standing up.

I just nod. “Yeah.”

I sit in my car, and the tears start before I can stop them.

Hot, silent at first, then shaking.

I turn the key and blast the music—something loud, anything loud—just to drown out the sound of me.

The bass rattles the mirrors, covers the sobs clawing their way out of my chest.

For a minute, it works.

The noise fills every corner until there’s no room left for remembering.

But even under the music, I can still hear it—

the voice. Their laughter.

I grip the steering wheel, breathing hard, and tell myself it’s just another day.

Just another Tuesday.

Same time next week.

I take a deep breath, trying to shove it all back down inside.

But I can’t.

Flashback

That night didn’t feel different at first.

Mom vanished into the crowd.

Then he found me.

A family friend.

The rest comes in flashes—the lock clicking, the wall at my back, the smell of beer, my heartbeat in my throat.

I remember trying to push him away.

I remember the song that wouldn’t stop playing.

When it was over, he left me at the park.

I just lay there on the merry-go-round, staring at the stars.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

An officer finally found me. He didn’t say a word—just opened the car door.

I followed because I didn’t know what else to do.

That was the night I met Dr. Gray.

He seemed kind. Made me tea. Let me clean up.

He listened—really listened—until I started crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

He told me I was safe now.

For a while, I believed him.

Dr. Gray wanted to help me put myself back together.

He said I just needed time, patience, and honesty.

I told him things I’d never told anyone—the drugs, the parties, Mom.

But that was a long time ago.

Different office.

Different doctor.

And now, here I am again—

trying not to fall apart in front of another stranger who says he just wants to help.

Present

I sit on my bed back home.

The room feels too quiet—the kind of quiet that hums in your ears.

I can’t sleep.

The clock on my nightstand blinks 12:47. 12:48. 12:49.

I reach for the old journal under my pillow.

The cover’s worn, corners bent, pages smudged with ink and old tears.

I flip it open to a blank page and start doodling—loops, lines, little flowers that never look right.

I’m waiting for the words to come, but they don’t.

Not at first.

It’s easier to draw than to remember.

Easier to move the pen than to think.

Then I hear his voice again—Dr. Rowan’s—“Sometimes writing helps untangle what’s too heavy to say.”

So I write.

Slow at first.

Just pieces.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

I don’t even know where to start.

Maybe this isn’t for anyone else to read.

Maybe it’s just for me.

The pen shakes in my hand.

I take a deep breath.

And then the memories start to push through—one by one—like cracks spreading through glass.

Journal Entry #1

I kept staring at this stupid poster in the waiting room:

Healing Through Honesty.

Whatever that means.

The walls were this pale yellow—like they were trying too hard to be happy.

The clock ticked too loud.

I wanted to leave before anything even started.

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” a voice said behind me.

I turned around.

“The poster,” he said, pointing.

“Not much here does,” I said back.

“I’m Jeremy,” he said, reaching out his hand.

“Dehlia.”

I didn’t take it.

He dropped his hand, smirking a little. “You Dr. Gray’s new toy?”

“What?” I asked.

Before I could say anything else, the office door opened.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Dr. Gray said.

Jeremy looked at me one more time—something like a warning, or maybe a smile—before I followed Dr. Gray inside.

I stop writing.

My chest feels tight again.

The pen slips from my hand, leaving a black mark across the page.

I close the journal and slide it under my pillow, like hiding it will make it less real.

But the words are still there—burned into the paper, and into me.

I remember his eyes—calm, steady—like he already knew how fragile I was.

I wanted to shrink, disappear, curl up into nothing.

Part of me wanted to run, but my legs didn’t move.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said softly, almost like he could read my thoughts.

“Just… stay. Be here. Let me help.”

I nodded, barely. My throat felt tight.

I didn’t trust him. Not really.

But the way he said it… it was like a promise I wanted to believe in.

I kicked at the edge of the chair, just enough to remind myself I existed.

His hand rested a second too long on the armrest near mine.

I flinched.

He pulled back, adjusted his sleeve—like maybe he hadn’t meant to.

“You’re safe,” he repeated.

And for a moment, I almost believed him.

Almost.

I close my eyes and open the notebook again.

The pen hovers over the page.

I don’t know where to start, so I start with what I can see.

Dr. Gray’s office smelled like citrus and amber.

Clean. Expensive.

I sat there staring at him.

He said I was safe.

The words feel small.

Not enough.

I don’t know if I believe him.

I wanted to leave.

I wanted to disappear.

But my legs didn’t move.

The pen shakes in my hand.

I doodle a circle, then a line through it.

Then I write again.

He says I can leave the broken me behind.

He says he can help me.

I want to believe him.

But I can’t.

I stop writing and stare at the page.

The words are just ink now, but they feel heavier than my chest.

I put the pen down and hug the notebook to my stomach.

It’s the only place I can admit the truth:

I don’t know who to trust.

I don’t know if anyone can fix me.

Journal entry #2

Mom’s back. After a week of her and Dad screaming at each other, we’re back at that damn trailer. The smell hits me first—stale smoke, spilled beer, Mom’s cheap perfume. Mom disappears into her own world as soon as we step inside. I slip past her, heading straight for the kitchen. Their cheap beer and liquor bottles line the counter. I grab one, pour it into a cup, and top it off with soda. The fizz hisses like it knows something bad is coming. I drag my chair out to the back deck, slump into it, and take a long swallow. The cold liquid burns my throat, but it’s nothing compared to the pit in my stomach. Then I hear it. That laugh. His laugh. It cuts through the afternoon air like a knife. My blood runs cold. I freeze, gripping the cup so hard my knuckles turn white. Every instinct tells me to run, hide, disappear—but I don’t. I can’t. The wind shakes the old trailer boards beneath me. Somewhere inside, the faint hum of a TV plays over someone’s shouting. But all I can hear is that laugh. I hear footsteps on the deck behind me. “Here,” someone says, holding out another cup. “Looks like you could use another one.” I finish mine and take it, muttering, “Thanks.” They lean against the railing, tapping a pill out of a bottle. “Want one?” I just stare at it. My chest tightens, a dull panic rising. “Fuck,” I say, holding my hand out before I even realize I’m doing it. They smile, easy and casual, like nothing about this is wrong. “Have fun,” they say, turning back toward the trailer. I sit there, staring at the pill in my hand. A minute passes. Two. I don’t know why I took it. I don’t even know what it’s for. The air feels heavier now, sticky with heat and unease. My fingers curl around the pill, my mind numb. The world seems distant, like I’m watching myself from somewhere else. I hear him laugh again. Without thinking, I swallow the pill. Minutes later, the world doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. Colors are sharper, sounds closer. My chest still tight, but a strange calm is creeping in. “Hey there, Dahlia,” a familiar voice says behind me. “Jeremy,” I croak, standing but almost falling over. “Easier there,” he says, catching me gently. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice shaky. “Same thing you are, I guess,” he says, a small, wry smile. “I doubt that,” I laugh, the sound foreign even to me. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere safer,” he says, guiding me toward the trailer. “I… I can’t,” I murmur, pushing back. “I can’t go in there.“Okay,” he says, still holding me steady. He looks into my eyes, which are starting to fill with tears. “I can’t be around him,” I whisper. “Who?” he asks gently. I shake my head, words catching in my throat. “Okay,” he says softly. “You don’t have to tell me. Come on.” Without another word, he jumps off the deck, and I hesitate, my stomach twisting. I glance back toward the trailer. Mom must be in one of the bedrooms—I can’t see her anywhere. I take a deep breath and follow, jumping down next to Jeremy. “Where are we going?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Somewhere else,” he says, his hand still holding mine, firm and steady. “Anywhere you feel safe.” The yard feels enormous now, the trailer looming behind us like a shadow. Every laugh, every shout from inside makes my chest tighten, but with Jeremy next to me, it’s just a shadow—not real. Not yet. I let him guide me down the yard, step by step, my body still heavy from the pill, my mind foggy, but for the first time today… not entirely trapped. We move down the yard, the grass prickling my bare feet through my shoes. Each step feels heavier than the last, but Jeremy’s hand is steady, guiding me forward. The pill makes the world feel soft-edged—sounds are louder, colors sharper, but my chest is calmer than it’s been all day. “Almost there,” he murmurs. “Just a few more steps.” I glance back at the trailer. The windows glare like dark eyes, watching, waiting. A laugh—low and cruel—slips through the screen door. My stomach twists, and I grip Jeremy’s hand tighter. “It’s okay,” he says, noticing. “They can’t touch you out here.” Somewhere in my fogged mind, I know he’s right. But my body doesn’t feel convinced. My legs tremble, my throat tight. I can’t stop the tiny sobs that catch in my chest. Jeremy guides me around to the side of the trailer, where an old shed sits half-hidden behind a chain-link fence. “Here,” he says. “We can wait here. Just for a while.” I sink down onto the edge of the wooden step, my fingers digging into the splintered wood. Jeremy kneels next to me, careful not to crowd me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “You’re safe,” he says again. “No one can get to you here. Not right now.” I nod, unable to speak. The pill hums through me, dulling some of the fear, but not all. My eyes sting, my chest aches, but for the first time today, I feel a little… untangled. “Do you want to tell me what happened inside?” he asks softly. I shake my head. ““That’s fine,” he says. “We’ll wait. No pressure. We just… stay out here. Breathe.” I lean back, letting the evening air wash over me. The sun is lowering, painting everything in gold and orange. For now, the trailer is behind us, its shadows powerless. For now, Jeremy is here. And for now… I’m not alone.I take a shaky breath, and suddenly it all comes tumbling out. Words I’ve buried, screams I’ve swallowed, memories I’ve locked away—they spill from me like a flood I can’t stop. “Every fight… every time they yelled… every time I tried to… to disappear… to just… leave my own life behind…” My voice breaks. Tears streak down my cheeks. I can barely catch a breath. “I… I’ve been told I’m a mistake. That I’m nothing. That they hate me. That… that I’m worthless…” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I can’t stop saying them. Each confession burns, but it also feels like a weight leaving my chest. Jeremy stays silent, just there beside me, steady. His hand rests lightly on my back, never pushing, never forcing me to stop. “I don’t… I don’t know why I’m still here. Why I even bother… why I try…” My voice is barely more than a whisper now, carried on the cool evening air. He leans closer, his voice gentle, unshakable. “Dahlia… you’re not nothing. You’re not a mistake. None of that defines you. None of it.” I shake my head, sobbing harder. “But they… my own parents… they hate me. I’m… I’m nothing to them.” “You’re everything to me right now,” he says, and I feel the weight of those words. Not like a pressure, but like a lifeline. “You’re alive. You’re here. And I’m not going anywhere.” I bury my face in my hands, the sobs racking my body, but I let him hold me. Let him be there. For the first time in… I don’t know how long, I feel a tiny flicker of something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years: maybe I’m not entirely alone. I wipe my tears on the back of my sleeve and start speaking faster, the memories spilling out before I can stop them. “It’s every night… every stupid, screaming fight. Mom yelling at Dad, Dad yelling back, slamming doors, breaking things. I’ve hidden in closets, under beds… anywhere I can vanish. I’ve listened to their words cut each other down, and then they turn on me. I get the looks, the sneers… the reminders.” My hands tremble as I clutch my knees. “I’ve been told I’m a mistake. That I ruined their lives. That they hate me. I’ve seen Mom throw drinks at me when she’s mad. Dad… he doesn’t hit, not really, but he makes me feel like I deserve everything he says. And when I try to leave… when I try to walk away, they… they yell, they call me names, they make me feel like I’m nothing.” I pause, the words catching in my throat. “Sometimes I think… maybe I deserve it. Maybe I am nothing. That my life doesn’t matter.” Jeremy doesn’t flinch. He just lets me spill it, lets me be raw and terrified. “It’s not your fault,” he says gently. “None of it is.” “But it feels like it,” I whisper. “Every time they fight, every time they hit me with words, every time I’m ignored or blamed or called worthless… It’s like I’m disappearing all over again. I’ve tried to leave myself behind, just… just vanish, but there’s no way out. And even if there was, I don’t think they’d even notice.” Jeremy shifts closer, keeping his voice calm, steady, a lifeline. “You’re here. You’re still you. And I see you, Dahlia. I see everything they’ve tried to take from you—and you’re still here. You’re still alive. You’re still… something no one can erase.” I shake my head, tears falling freely. “I don’t feel like anything. I feel… broken. Everywhere, inside, all the time.” “You’re not broken,” he whispers. “You’re… real. Scarred, yes. Hurt, yes. But still real. And you deserve to be safe.” I lean into him, letting the sobs wrack my body, letting myself be seen for the first time in years. And for a tiny, fragile moment, the trailer, the yelling, the fear—it feels distant. Dr. Rowan’s office smells different than Dr. Gray’s did. Mint and vanilla instead of citrus and amber. Still, my stomach twists when I walk in — like my body remembers something before my brain does. He nods toward my journal. “Can I?” I nod, my fingers tightening around the cover. As I hand him my book, I look around his office, pretending to adjust his calendar to the right date, trying to stay distracted. The thought of letting him in—letting anyone in—feels heavy, like I’m handing over a piece of myself I’ve been guarding for years. He takes the journal carefully, opening it like it’s fragile. His eyes scan the pages. He doesn’t speak at first. Every so often, he lets out a soft sigh, like he’s caught in thought about what I’ve written, but he never interrupts. I watch him from the corner of my eye, chest tightening with every pause. It’s terrifying, this quiet, this attention, this understanding. And yet… part of me wants to see him read, to see if the words I’ve been too scared to say out loud mean anything to anyone else. Dr. Rowan closes the journal softly, handing it back to me. For a second, he just breathes. No questions. No notes. Just quiet. “It’s a lot,” he says finally. “You’ve been carrying all of this for a long time.” I nod, staring at the carpet. “It doesn’t feel like carrying,” I say quietly. “It feels like… it’s inside me. Like if I stop holding it down, it’ll just take over.” He nods, eyes soft. “Maybe that’s why the writing helps. You let it out just enough to breathe.” I shrug. “Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it makes everything worse.” “That’s part of healing,” he says. “It’s messy.” I let out a small, humorless laugh — it catches in my throat. He leans forward a little. “Do you want to talk about Journal Entry Three?” My chest tightens instantly. I shrug, not looking up. “Do you still hurt yourself?” he asks. The air in the room changes — thicker somehow. My throat goes dry. I pick at the edge of my sleeve, pretending to notice a loose thread.

Journal Entry 3

Sometimes the cutting is the only way I can stop feeling.

The drugs used to make me feel things — little bursts of something real — because I was so numb all the time.

But now, after everything, I just wish I could go back to feeling nothing again.

Pain is the only thing that shuts it all off.

The voices, the thoughts, the memories — they all fade when I bleed.

For a few seconds, it’s quiet.

For a few seconds, I can breathe.

But it never lasts.

The quiet only lasts a few seconds.

Then the memories come back. The voices. The shame.

Like a tide, pulling me under again.

I hate myself after.

Not for doing it — I need it to survive — but for still needing it.

For being weak. For being broken. For letting the pain win.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would even notice if I didn’t come back up.

If I just… disappeared.

Would they care? Would anyone?

I try to tell myself it’s not about them.

It’s about me. My control. My escape.

But even that feels like a lie.

I hate that I crave it.

I hate that I need it.

I hate that nothing else works.

And still… a tiny voice in the back of my head whispers that maybe, just maybe, I can find another way.

That maybe I don’t have to cut to survive.

That maybe someone out there could help me put down the knife and breathe without it.

I don’t know if I believe that voice.

I’m scared to.

It feels dangerous to hope.

But for the first time in a long time, it’s there.

Even if it’s small.

Even if it’s faint.

Even if it’s trembling like me.

Maybe… I can hold on to that.

says, calm but insistent. “You’re okay. You’re still here.”

Present Day

A week later, I’m back in Dr. Rowan’s office.

Same chair. Same faint smell of mint and vanilla.

Different weight in my chest.

He gives me the same soft smile when I sit down, the kind that doesn’t demand anything.

“How was your week?”

I shrug.

“How are you feeling today?”

Another shrug.

He nods once, calm. No clipboard, no notes, just his hands folded loosely in his lap.

“I don’t mind sitting here if that’s what you need,” he says, and takes a slow sip of his coffee.

The silence stretches between us, warm instead of sharp.

Dr. Gray never let silence last.

He filled it like a man patching a leak.

‘Use your words, Dahlia.’

‘Avoidance won’t help you.’

He always leaned forward when he said it, elbows on his knees, eyes too direct.

I learned how to disappear in that chair—just enough to make him give up.

Dr. Rowan doesn’t lean forward.

He leans back.

He leaves space.

I twist the edge of my sleeve until the threads snap.

He doesn’t stop me.

He doesn’t even look away.

After a while, he asks, “What’s in the bag?”

I freeze, my throat tight.

“My art,” I croak, barely a whisper.

He nods, thoughtful. “Does it help?”

I shrug again.

It’s easier than explaining how sometimes the art feels like bleeding without blood—how the sketches pull everything out of me and leave me hollow.

Dr. Gray would have written that down.

He’d have said, ‘That’s a productive outlet, Dahlia,’ like I was homework he could grade.

But Dr. Rowan just says quietly, “That’s good.”

And somehow that makes my eyes sting.

Because he means it.

He doesn’t ask to see the drawings.

He doesn’t tell me what they should represent.

He just lets the silence hold me until my heartbeat starts to slow.

It’s strange—how kindness can feel so dangerous when you’re not used to it.

Dr. Rowan’s gentleness is too close, too patient.

It doesn’t demand, it just waits.

And waiting feels like trust.

Trust feels like a trap.

So I keep my eyes on the floor.

I twist my sleeves tighter.

And I say nothing at all.

Journal Entry 4

I sneak out, heart racing, the trailer fading behind me. I don’t look back.

Tonight, at least, I can be invisible somewhere else.

Tonight, I can be someone else—someone who isn’t trapped in that house, that body, that noise.

Jeremy’s waiting, and somehow that makes it feel almost safe.

Everything that night is a blur—endless cups, pills, joints.

Faces drift past me like smoke.

Voices too loud, laughter too sharp, bass pounding through the floor, through my ribs, through my brain, until I can’t tell where I end and the sound begins.

I don’t know what time it is.

I don’t know how long I’ve been chasing that dizzy calm that comes with every sip, every hit, every swallow.

Then the hot tub.

Steam curling around us, music vibrating through the water, bodies pressed close without care.

Someone passes a glass tray. I don’t think—I just lean forward, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The burn hits my nose, my throat, my chest.

The world tilts and brightens.

Edges melt like wax.

I move through the night like a ghost—one minute in the living room, the next on the balcony. Everything spinning. Everything bright.

Somewhere beneath the noise, a tiny voice is begging me to stop.

But it’s too quiet. Too small.

Jeremy’s there somewhere, always there. His hand on my back, his voice low in my ear.

“It’s okay,” he says.

And maybe it is.

Maybe for once, it actually is.

The lights blur.

My body feels weightless, floating.

The laughter fades into something distant, underwater.

My heartbeat slows—heavy, uneven.

And then—nothing.

Journal Entry 5

I walk to Dr. Gray’s office.

He’s leaning against his desk when I step inside, arms crossed, watching.

He doesn’t speak at first. Then he reaches out, holding a small box.

“I missed your birthday,” he says quietly, setting it in my hand.

I look down, confused. “Oh,” I murmur, moving to my chair.

He smiles—soft, deliberate—as I open it.

Inside is a black band ring.

“You always play with mine,” he says. “So I got you one.”

I slide it on, rubbing it with my thumb until the cold metal warms beneath my skin.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

For a while, neither of us speaks. The air feels heavier than usual.

I twist the ring, nerves buzzing under my skin.

Then the words slip out before I can stop them.

“The party…” I start, hesitant. “It was… a mess. Drinks, smoke, pills. And there was this guy—someone I’ve liked for a while. I don’t know, it just… happened.”

Something flickers in Dr. Gray’s face.

His eyes darken. The corner of his mouth tightens.

“You like him?”

His voice is low, controlled—but there’s an edge under it.

“I… maybe,” I say, barely audible.

He exhales—slow, sharp—like he’s trying to keep something in check.

But I see it anyway.

Jealousy twisting his calm into something else.

Then I make it worse.

“Jeremy was there too.”

Everything stops.

The calm he wears like armor cracks.

His hands slam against the desk. The sound slices through the air.

“Jeremy?” he snaps. “Why was he there?”

“I don’t know,” I say quickly. “He just showed up, I didn’t—”

He steps closer, voice low and dangerous.

“Dahlia, he’s using you. He couldn’t save his sister, and now he’s trying to save you to ease his guilt. Don’t you see that?”

I flinch.

“Everyone uses me for something,” I whisper.

“I’m not,” he says, too fast, too hard. “I’m trying to help you.”

His hand lands on my knee—firm, insistent. It lingers there, just a little too long.

My breath catches. I freeze. The room feels smaller, the air too thick to swallow.

The session ends like all the others—

with boundaries blurred.

But somehow, with him, it feels safer.

The air still hums with the weight of what just happened.

I twist the black ring on my thumb, trying to anchor myself.

My chest is tight, my stomach buzzing, but beneath it all there’s a strange comfort—a pull I can’t explain.

I know I shouldn’t feel safe. Not like this.

Not after everything.

And yet, I do.

I stand, legs shaky, and walk into the hallway.

The light hits too bright. The fluorescent hum too sharp.

But the ring is warm against my skin—

a small reminder that even in chaos, something—or someone—is still holding me here.

Journal Entry 6

Thursdays mean Dad Day.

He’s off work, Mom’s at her job, and for a few hours, it’s just us.

It’s not bad, really. We actually have fun most of the time.

But there are too many secrets I have to keep from him.

Not that he’d care much—if I told him about the parties, or Mom, or all the times I’ve been with my friends.

He wouldn’t understand.

Wouldn’t get why I need to lie.

So I don’t.

I just keep it all tucked away, like always.

Today we went to the mall.

Dad said he wanted a tattoo—something he’d been planning for a while.

I wandered off while he sat in the shop, watching the needle trace patterns across his skin.

Four hours alone in the mall.

At first, I felt restless, pacing past stores, pretending I had somewhere to be.

But then… it got kind of nice.

Quiet, in my own way.

Nobody demanding. Nobody yelling.

Just me, my headphones, the hum of people passing by.

I watched.

Laughed at a kid chasing a balloon.

Browsed racks in stores I couldn’t afford.

For a little while, I almost forgot about the trailer.

About Mom’s moods, the fights, the pills, the secrets.

I felt… free.

When Dad came out, his arm wrapped in a new tattoo, smiling like a kid, I smiled too.

I asked him about the pain, the design, the meaning.

We talked like we always do—like everything else could wait.

And then, just like that, Thursday was over.

The mall, the tattoo, the small pockets of freedom—all gone the second we got back.

Back to Mom.

Back to the trailer.

Back to the secrets.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked beside him, trying to hold onto that quiet, stolen freedom for as long as I could.

Present Day

Back again.

Maybe one day Dr. Rowan will just give up.

He’s not like most people I know—no staring too long, no quiet tension hiding under his voice. Just stillness. Space.

Then he says, “Tell me about home.”

My shoulders tense before my brain can stop them.

“What about it?” I say, still staring at the floor.

“Whatever comes to mind,” he answers. “Anything.”

I shrug again, but this time the words follow, quiet, like they slip out on accident.

“Dad’s always mad. Doesn’t matter what I do.”

“Mad at you?” he asks.

“At everything,” I say. “But mostly me.”

He nods. “And your mom?”

I hesitate, the word sitting like a stone in my throat.

“She’s… around. Sometimes.”

“What’s she like when she’s around?”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve.

“Loud. Tired. High.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t write anything down. Just listens.

That makes it worse somehow—having someone really listen.

“She forgets stuff,” I say finally. “Like birthdays. Or that I’m in the room.

Sometimes she gets mad too, but mostly she just… disappears.”

“Where does that leave you?” he asks.

I blink fast, trying to focus on a crack in the floor.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Invisible, I guess.

Or… in the way.”

He nods slowly, his voice low and steady.

“That sounds lonely.”

I let out a small laugh that isn’t really a laugh.

“It’s fine,” I say automatically.

“Doesn’t sound fine.”

The room feels too small again. Too quiet.

I can feel him waiting for me to say more, but I don’t know how.

If I start, I might not stop.

So I just shake my head.

He doesn’t push.

Just leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees.

“When you say they hate you,” he says, “what makes you believe that?”

The words come out before I can stop them.

“Because they act like I ruin everything. Like I’m the reason they’re miserable.”

My voice cracks at the end, and I hate it. I hate how weak it sounds.

Dr. Rowan doesn’t flinch.

He just nods, slow and calm, the kind of nod that says I hear you.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says quietly. “You were a kid trying to survive in a house full of pain that wasn’t yours.”

Something in me stirs—sharp, unfamiliar.

Hope, maybe. Or grief. I can’t tell the difference.

I look up for half a second, meet his eyes, and then look away.

Even eye contact feels unsafe.

I squeeze the pillow tighter against my chest.

He notices I’m shutting down.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says softly, after a long moment.

He stands, gives me a small smile. “You did good.”

I don’t believe him. But I nod anyway.

When I leave, my hands are still shaking.

But for the first time in a long time,

it’s not from fear.

When I get home, I write.

Not because I want to, but because if I don’t, everything Dr. Rowan stirred up will swallow me whole.

The pages don’t ask questions. They just take whatever I give them.

And tonight, they take everything.

Journal Entry 8

I remember screaming his name over and over, my throat raw, my voice gone.

I kept trying to wake him up, shaking him, begging him to open his eyes.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even look like himself anymore.

Then the flashing lights. The sirens.

Someone grabbed me, pulling me back, their hands gripping my arms too tight.

I didn’t even feel it. I couldn’t.

It was Dr. Gray.

He pulled me off Jeremy’s body so they could get to him. I was screaming, fighting, shoving him away, blaming him — even though somewhere deep down, I already knew it wasn’t his fault. Or maybe I just couldn’t face that it was mine.

They said it happened fast. That he “did the right thing.”

But there’s no right thing when someone you love dies because of you.

Everyone kept asking what happened, but I couldn’t speak.

Not to the cops.

Not to Dr. Gray.

Not even to myself.

I just sat there, staring at the blood drying on my hands, wondering how something so warm could turn so cold so fast.

That night plays in loops behind my eyes —

his voice, the slam of the car door, the silence after.

I still hear it when everything else goes quiet.

I wish I could tell him I’m sorry.

Sorry for telling him.

Sorry for letting him go in.

Sorry for surviving when he didn’t.

He always told me I was stronger than I thought.

But he was wrong.

He was the strong one.

He was the light in all of it.

And when he died, it felt like he took the last good part of me with him.

Sometimes, I still catch myself reaching for my phone to text him.

To tell him something stupid, or small.

To ask if he’s okay.

Then I remember.

And I have to sit really still for a while,

just to keep from breaking again.

Journal Entry — The Night I Forgot My Name

I don’t remember where I was, or who handed me the bottle first.

I remember the music — too loud, flashing lights that burned my eyes — and the way my hands shook when I tried to light a cigarette.

Someone said I looked pretty. Someone else said I should loosen up. So I did.

I let go of my name. I let go of fear. I let go of rules I’d spent years trying to obey. I traded them for smoke, shots, and someone else’s hands brushing mine, lingering too long.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t matter.

But in the bathroom mirror, under flickering lights, I saw her — the girl I used to be, who dreamed, who trusted, who had a voice. She looked tired. Broken. Hollow. And I hated that I recognized her.

Journal Entry 9

And then I’m back where it all started — at Dr. Gray’s house.

Just as broken as the first time I came here.

He’s wiping the blood off me again, quiet, methodical. His eyes move over me like I’m something fragile he’s trying not to break — or maybe something already broken that he’s too tired to fix.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just cleans. Just watches.

Then he pours a drink. A full glass of something dark.

Hands it to me like it’s medicine.

I down it before he can stop me, before I can feel.

He refills it. Pours one for himself too. Takes a slow sip, staring into the glass instead of at me.

“I told you Jeremy was bad news,” he says finally, voice flat.

I slip Jeremy’s ring into my pocket before he can see it.

Hide it like a secret.

Like a sin.

I twist the black band ring he gave me on my finger — and take another drink.

“Make the pain go away,” I whisper, barely loud enough to hear myself.

Dr. Gray sets his glass down. Walks over to me. His expression is unreadable — half pity, half disappointment.

“Not this time,” he says. “You have to feel it, my little Lila. You have to lie in the bed you made.”

His voice is colder now. Distant.

Something in me snaps.

The glass flies from my hand, crashes against the wall, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces that sound like the inside of my chest.

He just sighs. Gets up. Fetches a broom.

Doesn’t even look angry. Just… tired.

Like he’s cleaned up after me too many times before.

“You always take the pain away,” I choke out. “Why not now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sweeps the shards into a dustpan. The quiet is heavier than his words.

Finally, he dumps the glass into the trash.

“You chose him over me,” he says softly. “And look how that turned out.”

The words hit harder than the alcohol.

The tears start again before I can stop them.

I sink back into the chair, the blanket sliding off my shoulders. My body feels like it’s giving up.

“You said you could fix me,” I whisper. “You said I didn’t have to stay broken.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t answer.

Just keeps cleaning.

And maybe that’s the answer.

Journal Entry 10

After Jeremy’s death, I wasn’t there anymore. Not really.

I moved through the days like a ghost wearing my own skin — empty, silent, and already halfway gone. Everyone kept saying “I’m sorry” like those words could fix anything, like they could pull him back or scrub the blood from my memory.

I didn’t want to feel anything. Feeling meant remembering. Remembering meant pain.

So I did whatever it took not to feel.

It all turned into a blur — parties, music so loud it drowned out my thoughts, hands that didn’t belong to me, bottles passed around until the room spun. I’d end up at places I didn’t know with people I didn’t care about. Mom’s favorite trailer parks, half-lit kitchens that reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. Random couches, random beds, random faces.

If I was lucky, I didn’t remember the nights at all.

Sometimes I’d wake up with mascara smeared down my face, someone else’s jacket thrown over me, my phone buzzing with missed calls from people I didn’t want to talk to. I’d check it, hoping for a message from Jeremy — even though I knew. I knew.

I tried to replace the ache with noise.

Noise was easier.

Noise didn’t judge me.

Mom didn’t notice, or maybe she didn’t want to. She had her own ways of forgetting — her bottles, her men, her disappearing acts. We were both trying to erase something, I guess. Hers was him. Mine was me.

There were nights when I’d see his face in flashes — Jeremy, smiling, his hand on my shoulder, the warmth in his voice when he said I’d be okay. I’d close my eyes, but it wouldn’t go away. The warmth would turn to red, to fear, to the sound of my own screaming.

So I drank more.

Used more.

Ran faster.

The pain blurred until I couldn’t tell where it ended and where I began. I thought if I could make myself small enough, numb enough, invisible enough — maybe the world would forget me too.

Maybe I’d finally stop hurting.

But the thing about pain is… it doesn’t disappear.

It waits.

It hides in the corners until the noise fades, and then it crawls back, whispering the same thing over and over again:

It should’ve been you.

Present Day — Session with Dr. Rowan

For the first time, I sit in Dr. Rowan’s office with my art book open in front of me. My fingers trace the shapes and colors I’ve poured my thoughts into — the only language that’s ever made sense. My notebook rests on my lap, heavy with things I’ve never said out loud.

Dr. Rowan watches me quietly, giving me space to breathe. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… steady. Safe, maybe.

“It was my fault,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His brow furrows, patient but calm. “What was?”

“Jeremy’s death,” I whisper. “It was my fault. He was defending me. He was always protecting me… and I couldn’t protect him.”

Dr. Rowan doesn’t move closer, but his voice lowers — warm and grounded, like a hand I’m not ready to take.

“Dahlia… what happened that night wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make that choice. You didn’t put him in danger.”

I shake my head harder. “If I hadn’t told him—if I had just lied—he’d still be here.”

“Or maybe you wouldn’t,” he says quietly. “Maybe he saved you because he couldn’t save himself. That’s not something you caused. It’s something he chose — because he cared.”

The words hit something deep. Tears slip down before I can stop them. The ring on my finger feels heavier than usual, cold against my skin.

“I just want it to stop replaying,” I whisper. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.”

He nods slowly, voice softer now. “Then let’s start there. Not with blame. Not with punishment. With what’s left — what still hurts, and what’s trying to heal.”

I nod, barely. My chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths.

For the first time, I don’t look away.

Journal Entry — The Girl in the Mirror

I started wearing heavier makeup. Not because I liked it, but because it erased me.

I would stare at the reflection until I didn’t recognize myself — until I could pretend to be someone else. Someone colder, braver, sharper.

The real me was soft, scared, and alive. She didn’t survive those nights.

So I killed her with eyeliner, vodka, and cigarettes.

Journal Entry — The Party I Don’t Talk About

They said I was “fun” when I drank. I wasn’t fun. I was gone.

I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember how I got upstairs.

I remember the sound of laughter from the hallway, the pulsing bass that shook my chest, and the way my body froze when hands touched me without asking.

I remember wishing Jeremy was there. Wishing someone would see me, see the girl I still was beneath the mess.

I thought maybe this was what I deserved.

Journal Entry 11

I knew Dr. Gray was always jealous of Jeremy.

But I never understood why. Not fully. Not until now — thinking back to that first day when he found out I was friends with Jeremy. The way his eyes had flickered, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw… I’d pushed it aside back then. I guess maybe I’ve always been in too much denial about what was really going on.

Dr. Gray’s office smelled the same — citrus and amber, clean and precise. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

“Take a seat, Dahlia,” he said, his tone soft, patient, like he knew exactly how fragile I felt.

I didn’t sit immediately.

“I’ve been thinking about our last session,” Dr. Gray said. “About the trust we’re building.”

I blinked at him. “Trust?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward, fingers lightly steepled. “It’s fragile. But it’s the only way to move forward. Do you want to be fixed, Dahlia?”

I looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” he said smoothly. “You don’t have to know yet. But the first step is honesty.”

He reached for a notebook on his desk. His hand paused over it. I noticed the faint tremor — barely noticeable, but there.

“Tell me about Jeremy,” he said suddenly.

I froze. Why did he care about Jeremy? He wasn’t supposed to.

“What did he say to you? What did he want?”

I said nothing.

He nodded, as if he’d expected it. “We’ll talk about him another time. For now…” He smiled — just a fraction too wide. “…let’s focus on you.”

I sat there, trapped in his gaze, his hands resting on the desk behind him. He smirked, and I glanced around the office — everything too perfect, too ordered. Books stacked neatly, certificates on the wall.

“Dahlia,” he whispered.

I looked back at him, and then it happened — he kissed me.

It didn’t feel unsafe. Not this time. The clock on the wall seemed to stop, the steady ticking replaced by a strange quiet that filled the room. Every soft word he’d said, every careful touch, suddenly made sense in a way that terrified me.

I didn’t understand it. I hated that I didn’t understand it. My chest ached with confusion, with longing, with the fear that I was letting myself fall into something I shouldn’t.

And yet… in that impossible, twisted moment, I felt calm.

Why do I feel calm? Why does this feel okay? My mind shouted at me, warning bells blaring, but my body ignored them. My hands trembled, my stomach twisted, and still, I stayed.

He pulled back. “See? Nothing bad happens when you trust me,” he whispered.

But the thought of Jeremy flickered through my mind. And with it, the first real understanding of Dr. Gray’s jealousy.

He wanted me. And Jeremy had taken that place, even if only in his mind.

And somehow, that made everything heavier.

Present Day

The office is quiet — the soft hum of the heater the only sound besides my own uneven breaths. I sit stiffly on the couch, fingers gripping the fabric, as Dr. Rowan leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes aren’t probing; they’re steady. Patient.

“I can see there’s a lot under the surface,” he says softly. “You’re holding back, and that’s okay. But I think you’re ready to start touching it, even just a little.”

I shake my head quickly, almost violently. “I… I can’t. I’m not ready.” My voice cracks. I glance down at my hands. “It’s too much. I’ll break if I—”

“You won’t,” he interrupts gently. His voice is calm, like a tether in the storm. “Not here. Not now. You’re safe in this room. And even if it’s scary… we don’t have to go all the way at once. We just take a step.”

I swallow hard, the knot in my stomach tightening. “But it’s all… dark. All bad. I don’t even know how to start thinking about it without it—without it hurting.”

He nods, leaning back slightly, giving me space. “I know it hurts. I can see that. But there’s more than just the pain. There’s the life you shared with Jeremy, too. Even if it was short… it mattered. Those moments, those memories — they’re yours, and they’re real. You don’t have to focus on the loss alone.”

I blink, unsure, my chest aching. “The life… not the death?”

“Yes,” he says. “You don’t have to erase the pain, but you also don’t have to let it define everything. Think about the small things — the times he made you laugh, the moments he stood by you, the way he saw you when nobody else did. Those weren’t fleeting — they were real. You can hold onto those too.”

I let out a shaky breath, the tightness in my chest loosening just a fraction. “I… I think I remember some of it. The small things. The stupid jokes. Him always knowing what I was thinking before I even said it.” A tear slides down my cheek. “I just… I don’t know if that’s enough to keep me from…” My voice falters.

Dr. Rowan tilts his head slightly, his expression gentle. “It’s enough to start. That’s the point. You start with what you can hold onto, and the rest… we’ll explore together, slowly. You don’t have to face the whole storm at once. You just have to take one small, steady step.”

I nod, swallowing hard. For the first time in a long time, the knot in my chest feels a little less like it’s crushing me. I don’t feel healed — far from it — but maybe, just maybe, I can start remembering the life I shared with him instead of only the way it ended.

Journal Entry — The Beginning of Me

I think I was born unwanted.

That’s where it started — not with the fights or the bruises or the silence, but with the quiet certainty that I was a mistake no one knew how to love.

When I was small, the house was always humming. Not with music — with tension.

The walls carried every sound: a slammed cupboard, a glass tipped too hard on the counter, the edge in my father’s voice when he said her name like it was a curse.

I learned to listen before I breathed.

If his footsteps were slow, I could stay in the open.

If they were quick, sharp, I’d vanish to my room and count the seconds until the storm passed.

Mom had moods like weather — bright one hour, spinning the next. She smelled of perfume and smoke and something sour that clung to her hair.

Sometimes she’d scoop me up, call me baby girl, promise we were running away together. By morning she’d be gone or sleeping through the day, and I’d make my own cereal and pretend it tasted like freedom.

I was seven when I realized that love could sound like shouting.

That night they fought about money, about me, about nothing at all.

I remember the glass shattering, the sting of her words more than the sting on my skin.

She said I cried too easily, that I was too much like him.

So I stopped crying.

I started folding myself into quiet shapes — small enough to survive, invisible enough not to be blamed.

Silence became my safety.

But silence is heavy. It fills your chest until you forget what air feels like.

Journal Entry — The Ones Who Left

My brothers got to escape.

That’s the truth that sits in my throat whenever I think about them — the envy I pretend isn’t there. They packed their bags one by one, leaving behind the house that never stopped buzzing, the arguments that never cooled.

I was the youngest — too small to be part of their plans, too old to be completely invisible. They called me “kiddo,” kissed my hair, promised they’d come back once things calmed down.

Things never did.

After they left, the house felt louder. Every door slam echoed longer. Every insult hit harder. I became the stand-in audience for my parents’ anger — a witness they could still reach.

Mom drank more. Dad yelled more. I learned to predict them like storms, to read the shift in air before the lightning hit. The trick was not to talk, not to draw attention, to stay useful.

If I was quiet enough, maybe the thunder would roll past me.

When the cops came that one time, neighbors peeking through curtains, I lied for her.

Said she’d fallen. Said we were fine. Said I didn’t need anyone.

I thought loyalty would buy peace. All it bought was another night of silence — her back turned toward me on the couch, the TV flickering over empty bottles.

Sometimes, when she was halfway between drunk and dreaming, she’d mumble that I was all she had left.

She never said it like love. It sounded more like a warning.

I grew up carrying her through nights she couldn’t finish.

Wiping her face, dragging her to bed, covering her with the blanket she used to tuck around me when I was little.

By morning she never remembered, and I never reminded her.

That’s how you learn to disappear in plain sight — by becoming the caretaker no one thanks, the ghost who cleans up after other people’s damage.

Journal Entry 12

I stumble through the front door, the room spinning like the world itself is laughing at me. The liquor burns my throat, but it doesn’t numb the rage, the pain, the shame. I see him across the room — Dr. Gray, calm, collected, like he always is. But I can’t see calm anymore. I can’t see anything but betrayal.

“I trusted you!” I scream, voice cracking and echoing against the walls. I throw my hands up, swaying. “Everything! Every horrible thing I told you, every… every disgusting thing I did to survive, every… every thing that was broken inside me — you knew! You knew!”

He tilts his head, his expression unreadable, like he doesn’t know why I’m crying, why I’m shaking. But I don’t stop. I can’t.

“I told you about Jeremy! I told you about the parties! The pills, the drinks, the men… the ones who said they didn’t care about me, the ones who touched me anyway!” My voice is raw, screaming and broken. “I told you about my mom! About how she… how she… used me, sold me, left me alone! And you — you just sat there!”

I drop onto the couch, trembling, fingers digging into the cushions. “And the things I did to feel… something! Anything! You saw it all, every goddamn time, and… and what? You watched me spiral! You let me spiral! You —”

I hiccup, tears mixing with the whiskey on my cheeks, and I can’t stop. “I trusted you with everything! The rapes! The nights I wished I could disappear! The sex I didn’t want, the drugs I swallowed to forget, the bottles I emptied to make it through the night — I told you! All of it!”

He steps closer, his voice quiet, but I can barely hear it over the chaos inside me. “Little Lia…”

I scream again, cutting him off. “No! Don’t you dare try to soothe me! Don’t you dare try to calm me! You don’t get to fix this! You don’t get to pretend you can make it better, because you didn’t! You watched! You let me break, over and over, and I trusted you!”

The anger is so sharp it makes my head spin. I hit the wall with my fist, hard, and laugh hysterically through my sobs. “I trusted you more than anyone! More than Jeremy, more than anyone, and it still wasn’t enough! You can’t make me feel safe. You can’t make it go away!”

I collapse onto the floor, shaking, whiskey spilling over my hands. My chest heaves, and I can barely breathe. The memories flood me — every time I screamed into the void, every time I begged for someone to see me, and everyone left, including him, the one I thought wouldn’t.

And through it all, through the fire of my rage and despair, I feel the tiniest, cruelest shred of truth: I still needed him. And I still hate myself for it.

Present — Dr. Rowan’s Office, One Week Later

I slide into the chair, the edges digging into my thighs. My hands are folded in my lap, tight, knuckles pale. I feel the urge to vanish already—to curl into myself like I’ve done a thousand times before.

Dr. Rowan watches me quietly for a moment, his gaze calm, steady.

“I can tell you’re holding back,” he says softly.

I shrug, staring at the floor. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk.”

“That’s okay,” he says, leaning back slightly. “I notice it when you shut down like this. It’s your brain’s way of protecting you from feeling too much, too fast. That’s your defense mechanism.”

He pauses, his tone low but even.

“You’ve been through a lot—things no one should survive. Your body learned to protect you when your mind couldn’t. When the world wasn’t safe, you had to disappear.”

I nod faintly, still staring at my lap.

“When you shut down,” he continues, “it keeps you safe in the moment—but it also keeps you stuck.”

The silence stretches between us. His words hang there, heavy and true, and I hate how much they make sense.

Journal Entry 13

The band shows were the worst. Loud, smoky bars where the air tasted like sweat and beer, where the lights flashed too bright and the laughter felt too sharp. I used to sit on those cracked vinyl couches at the back, pretending I belonged there — just another girl tagging along — but I wasn’t. I was the kid whose mom was sleeping with someone from the band.

I knew it. Everyone knew it. The looks said enough. The way they’d whisper when she walked past, the way one of the guys would touch her back, slide his hand too low. And I’d just sit there, clutching a soda, pretending I didn’t see. Pretending it was normal.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

She’d tell me, “Don’t tell your dad. He wouldn’t understand.”

And I didn’t. I never did.

Every time he asked where we were, I’d lie. “At a friend’s house.” “At Aunt Rachel’s.” “Just out getting dinner.” I could feel my chest tighten when I said it, but I got good at it. I had to. I told myself I was protecting her, but that wasn’t true — not really.

I was protecting him.

Because even when he yelled, even when he slammed doors and called her names, I still knew underneath it all, he loved her. He wanted to believe she was better than she was. And somehow, I wanted that too. I wanted him to hold onto that illusion because the truth would’ve wrecked him. And I couldn’t be the one to do that.

He didn’t deserve her.

Not the way she used him, broke him, laughed at him behind his back when she thought no one could hear. He wasn’t perfect — he had his anger, his bitterness — but he tried.

And she took that from him.

So I sat there, night after night, watching her flirt and laugh with men half her age while I waited by the speakers, my ears ringing, my stomach sick. I watched her disappear behind the stage or into the back rooms, and I’d look away, pretending I didn’t see what I saw.

Then we’d drive home in silence, the car filled with shame. She’d sing along to the radio like nothing had happened, her voice slurring. I’d keep my eyes on the road ahead, praying Dad was asleep when we got back.

Because lying was easier than breaking his heart.

And even though I hated him sometimes, even though his anger scared me —

I still believed he deserved better than her.

Mom never noticed.

Or maybe she just didn’t care.

When she was laughing with them — those men in ripped jeans and leather jackets, the ones who smelled like whiskey and sweat — I’d be sitting just a few feet away, invisible. They’d wink at me sometimes, toss me a smile that lingered too long, and I’d feel my stomach twist. I was just a kid. But in that world, that didn’t seem to matter.

They’d ruffle my hair, call me “sweetheart,” “pretty girl,” and sometimes they’d let their hands stay too long on my shoulder, on my leg. I’d freeze every time, waiting for Mom to notice. Waiting for her to say stop, or don’t touch her like that, or even hey, that’s my daughter.

But she never did.

Present day

We sit there in silence. The clock ticks somewhere behind me, steady and soft.

Dr. Rowan leans back in his chair, hands wrapped loosely around a mug that’s gone cold.

He nods toward my arm. “Is that a new one?”

I glance down at my wrist, at the small flower curling over the bone. I nod.

“It’s nice,” he says quietly. “What’s it for?”

“It’s… for my nickname,” I murmur, tracing the outline of the petals. “Jeremy used to call me that.”

His voice stays gentle. “Jeremy… he was important to you.”

“Yeah.” I swallow, eyes fixed on the ink. “He was my rock. My protector. The only one who ever really stood up for me.” I pause, fingers trembling just a little. “Things are painful to remember, but… I never want to forget them. Not him. Not what he did for me.”

Dr. Rowan nods, his gaze steady but soft. “It sounds like remembering him is a way of keeping him close… even when it hurts.”

“Yeah.” My voice cracks a little. “The others… they taught me things too. Things I’ll never let happen again.”

He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more. Just lets the silence sit between us, not heavy this time—just there.

After a while, he says, “That sounds like strength, Dahlia. Knowing what not to let happen again.”

I shrug, eyes still on the flower. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just… survival.”

He nods. “Sometimes those two things are the same.”

I don’t answer. I just trace the lines again, breathing slow, holding onto the only things that still feel real—his name, the ink, and the quiet that doesn’t demand anything from me.

I tug my sleeve down over my wrist, hiding the tattoo, and pull my sketchbook from my bag.

The sketchbook lies between us like a fragile secret.

Dr. Rowan flips through the pages slowly, careful not to smudge the charcoal or the ink. His eyes move over the drawings — faces, mostly. Some blurred, some sharp, all haunted.

“This one,” he says quietly, tapping a page where the lines are jagged, black pressed deep into the paper. “You drew this recently?”

I nod once. “Last week.”

He studies it. “It feels… heavy. Like something was clawing to get out.”

I look away. “It’s just a drawing.”

“Drawings are never just drawings, Dahlia.” His voice is calm, the kind of calm that makes my skin prickle. “You said art helps you remember, right?”

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

He tilts his head. “And sometimes it helps you avoid remembering?”

That one hits. I shift in the chair, my fingers gripping the edge of my sleeve. “You said it yourself — avoidance is survival.”

“I did,” he says softly, nodding. “But surviving and healing aren’t the same thing.”

He turns another page. The next drawing is of a small figure curled in a corner, shadowy hands reaching from all directions. He traces one of the lines in the air, not quite touching. “You called this one ‘Too Loud.’”

“Yeah.”

“What was too loud?”

The question hangs between us. My throat tightens.

Everything. The screaming, the music, the lies, the guilt. Jeremy’s voice. The silence after. But I can’t say that. Not yet.

I shrug again. “It’s old.”

He closes the sketchbook gently and sets it on the table between us. “Your journals — they help too?”

I nod. “Sometimes.”

“Can I ask what you write about?”

A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “You could ask.”

He smiles, patient, waiting. That patience makes it worse.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Stuff. Whatever’s in my head.”

“Stuff like what?”

I meet his gaze for the first time since I walked in. “You really want to see inside there?”

“I think you want someone to,” he says.

My chest aches, a tight, pulsing pressure I can’t name. I want to tell him. I do. But the words feel dangerous — like if I say them out loud, everything I’ve been holding together will come apart.

So instead, I shake my head and whisper, “It’s just drawings. Just words. That’s all.”

He leans back, eyes soft. “That’s never all, Dahlia.”

The clock ticks. I focus on it until the sound drowns everything else out.

Journal Entry — “How I Got My Name”

It’s strange, the things that stick.

Out of all the nights that blur together — the noise, the smoke, the faces — this one won’t fade.

Maybe because it’s the night Dahlia was born.

Jeremy and I had gone to one of those house parties — the kind where the air tastes like cheap vodka and sweat, where the lights are too dim to see clearly and too bright to hide in.

I wasn’t planning on staying long.

But then he was there — the guy I’d been crushing on for months. Perfect smile, messy hair, the kind of charm that makes you forget your own name.

We ended up in the hot tub together, music pounding from the speakers, bubbles fizzing like they were alive. The drinks kept coming — shots, sips, something that burned all the way down.

I just wanted to feel free. To stop thinking for once.

Then someone brought out a glass case.

Lines of white powder laid out like a dare.

Everyone laughing, cheering, like it was some kind of game.

I remember the sparkle of the pool lights on the glass — how it looked almost beautiful.

I didn’t even think.

I leaned in and took a line.

For a second, everything went still.

Then it hit.

The world spun. The heat from the water turned to fire under my skin.

My stomach twisted, my head split open. I remember the guy’s face — that same perfect smile turned ugly, amused. I remember the laughter.

And then I remember throwing up. All over him.

The next thing I knew, Jeremy was there.

I don’t even know where he came from — just suddenly, his hands were on me, pulling me out of the hot tub, wrapping me in a towel. I was shaking, half-conscious, crying without even knowing why.

He carried me inside, laid me on the couch, and held a cup of water to my lips.

“You’re okay,” he kept saying. “You’re okay, Dahlia.”

I remember mumbling something — that he was using the wrong name.

He just smiled.

“Not tonight. Tonight, you’re Dahlia. Pretty, wild, and trying way too hard to bloom in the dark.”

It stuck.

Maybe because he said it with kindness instead of judgment.

Maybe because it was the first time someone saw me — really saw me — and didn’t flinch.

I never went back to my real name after that.

It didn’t feel like mine anymore.

That other girl — the one before the parties, before the bruises, before the guilt — she didn’t survive.

But Dahlia did.

And sometimes, I still wonder if that was a good thing.

Journal Entry — “The First Time I Broke”

It’s strange what the mind hides.

You can bury something for years — a sound, a smell, a single word — and then one day, it crawls out of the dark like it never left.

For me, it was the sound of glass breaking.

That’s what brought it all back.

Mom’s voice, sharp and slurred.

Dad’s footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

I remember how the air shifted — thick, electric, full of things I didn’t have names for yet.

I was just a kid. Eight, maybe younger. I don’t even remember what I’d done wrong. Probably nothing.

She grabbed my wrist so hard it left marks.

Her breath was hot, her eyes wild — not hers anymore.

“You ruin everything,” she said. Her words hit harder than her hands. “You were never supposed to happen.”

I tried to make myself small. Tried to disappear into the cracks in the kitchen tile.

Dad didn’t stop her. He just yelled at her to stop yelling.

No one ever really stopped anything in our house — they just screamed until the silence came back.

Afterward, I cleaned up the glass with my bare hands.

Tiny cuts. Little beads of red.

I didn’t even cry.

That was the night I learned pain can be quiet.

That it can live inside you — unspoken — and still scream loud enough to drown out everything else.

Later, when she finally passed out, I went to my room and pressed my hands against the window.

I remember thinking, maybe if I wished hard enough, I could just leave.

But where would I go?

Journal Entry — “learning to survive “

I was nine when I decided I didn’t want to be here anymore.

I didn’t have the words for it back then — I just wanted everything to stop.

The yelling. The breaking things. The nights that lasted forever.

It was summer. The air was thick, like breathing through a blanket.

The house smelled like cigarettes and something sour.

I was sitting on the bathroom floor, knees to my chest, shaking even though it was hot.

I didn’t understand what dying really meant.

I just knew I wanted quiet.

I remember staring at my reflection — red eyes, tangled hair, a face already tired of existing — and thinking,

No one would even notice.

That hurt more than the bruises.

More than the words.

Just the idea that I could vanish, and the world would keep spinning like I was never there.

I tried to make myself disappear that night.

I don’t remember all of it — just Mom’s voice hours later, slurred and panicked, calling my name.

And the light. Too bright.

Her hands shaking.

The smell of panic and whiskey.

Things didn’t get better after that.

But something in me changed.

It wasn’t hope — not yet.

It was more like a promise:

If I was going to stay, it had to be for me.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

Sometimes I think that’s when Dahlia died —

The version of me that could smile when it hurt,

that could take a hit and still laugh it off.

The version that survived.

Present — Dr. Rowan’s Office

The room feels smaller today.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s the way Dr. Rowan keeps his voice soft — like he’s afraid the wrong word might break something.

He asks about my week, the usual warm-up questions, but I can tell he’s watching the way my hands won’t stop moving. I keep tracing the rim of my coffee cup, the tiny chip on the handle.

“I used to wish everything would just end,” I say suddenly.

The words feel too big, too sharp in the air.

He doesn’t move. Just watches. Waits.

“I mean… not like—” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to die, not exactly. I just wanted everything to stop. The noise, the memories, the constant ache of it all.”

Dr. Rowan nods, his expression unreadable but kind.

“And the drinking?” he asks quietly. “The drugs?”

I let out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “That was my way of ending it without actually… ending it.”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “If I could blur it all out — make it fuzzy enough — then it didn’t hurt as much. I could forget for a little while. Pretend I was someone else. Someone who wasn’t broken before she even had a chance.”

He says something — I don’t even catch it — about coping mechanisms, about pain needing somewhere to go.

But all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears.

“I used to think if I could just stay high enough, or drunk enough, the thoughts would stop chasing me,” I whisper. “But they always found a way back. They always do.”

For a second, I almost look at him. Almost.

But then that old weight presses against my chest — the instinct to retreat, to lock everything back up tight.

Still, a part of me stays.

A small, fragile part that wants to keep talking.

That wants him to know.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the clock — steady, patient, uncaring.

I expect him to change the subject, or start writing like most doctors do when things get too real.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Dr. Rowan leans forward, his voice soft but certain.

“Dahlia,” he says, “what you just shared… that was incredibly brave.”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping. “It’s not brave. It’s pathetic.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s honesty. And sometimes honesty is the hardest thing we can do — especially when it hurts.”

My throat tightens. I stare at my hands, at the faint ink smudge on my knuckle.

“You don’t get it. If I start talking about it, I won’t stop. It’s like this hole that just keeps getting deeper.”

Dr. Rowan nods slowly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me everything right now.”

He pauses. “But maybe we can start small. What does it feel like — that hole you’re talking about?”

I shrug. “Heavy.”

“Where do you feel it?”

“In my chest. Like something’s pressing down.”

He nods again. “That’s pain. But it’s also the part of you that’s still fighting. The part that still wants to be heard.”

His words land in a place I didn’t know was still reachable.

I try to look away, but my eyes blur, and suddenly I’m blinking too fast.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t push. Just waits.

“I don’t… I don’t even know where to start,” I whisper.

“Start with what you remember most,” he says gently.

“Not the hardest part — just the part that still echoes when it’s quiet.”

The silence stretches.

I swallow hard, the words thick in my throat. I stare at the floor, searching for courage somewhere in the pattern of the rug.

“I had to see him,” I manage. “The same man. The one who… who—”

My voice breaks. I choke on it.

Dr. Rowan leans forward slightly, giving me space but not letting me disappear.

“The one who hurt you?”

I nod, fumbling with my hands. “Yeah. And… and my mom… she didn’t believe me. She said I was lying. That I was making it up. That I was… bad.”

My voice falters. “So I had to pretend. Pretend everything was fine. Smile at him. Nod. Sit there like nothing happened.”

I shake my head, trying to push the memory away, but it crashes back, vivid and suffocating.

“I hated it. I hated every second. But I… I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t even tell her. I had to protect… I don’t know… myself? Her? Him? I don’t even know.”

Dr. Rowan’s voice cuts through, gentle but steady.

“You don’t have to tell me everything at once, Dahlia. Just pieces. Just what you can. And I’ll be here for every piece you give me.”

I nod — a small motion, almost invisible.

I can’t tell him everything yet.

But maybe… maybe I can start.

Journal Entry — The Night at Dr. Gray’s House

I don’t even remember why I agreed to go there. Maybe I wanted someone to see me. Maybe I wanted someone to notice that I was barely holding myself together.

His house was spotless. Too spotless. Everything in its place, white walls reflecting the light too sharply, floors polished like mirrors. It felt unreal—like stepping into someone else’s idea of perfection.

My thoughts were spiraling faster than I could keep up. I told him I couldn’t do it anymore—the noise in my head, the memories I couldn’t shut off, the way I kept seeing the men who cornered me in that bathroom while my mother laughed outside the door. I told him how I tried to fight, and how fighting only made it worse.

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, calm, professional. Then he topped off my glass and set a small pill in front of me.

“Just relax,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced. “It’ll help.”

I took it because I didn’t know what else to do. The room started to blur around the edges, a strange calm pressing down on me. I remember watching the way his black ring tapped against his glass, the sound steady and soft, almost hypnotic.

I don’t know what made me reach out—maybe desperation, maybe the need to feel something safe for once. He didn’t stop me. He didn’t remind me of the line that was supposed to be there between us.

Everything after that becomes fog—sounds, shapes, fragments of comfort that weren’t really comfort at all. I told myself it was different with him, gentler, almost kind. My brain wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. I can still feel the ghost of that night lingering on my skin—the false warmth, in the way he said “ my little lia”.

Journal Entry — Parking Lot Confessions

The night air was cold enough to sting, thick with cigarette smoke and leftover rain.

I remember standing under the flickering light in the parking lot, pulling Jeremy’s hoodie tighter around me while he leaned against his car — that old, dented thing that always smelled like motor oil and peppermint gum.

“So,” he said, lighting a cigarette, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “You’re Dr. Gray’s new toy, huh?”

I froze mid-step. “What?”

He smirked, blowing out a slow stream of smoke. “Don’t play dumb, Dahlia.”

I laughed, but it came out hollow. “It’s not like that.”

Jeremy tilted his head, studying me — that same way he always did when he already knew the truth but wanted to hear me say it.

“No,” he said finally, “it really is.”

I looked away, twisting the hem of my sleeve. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” His voice softened, but it hit harder. “I’ve known Gray longer than you think. I know how he operates — how he finds girls like you. The ones already breaking, already bleeding. He makes them think he’s the one who can fix it.”

My stomach dropped. The words felt too close to something true.

“He’s helping me,” I said quietly.

Jeremy stepped closer, his jaw tight. “No, Dahlia. He’s using you.”

Something in me snapped — defense, denial, both.

“You don’t understand! He listens. He actually cares!”

Jeremy laughed — not because it was funny, but because it hurt. “Yeah, he listens so he can twist it later. That’s what he does. And you… you let him.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. “You don’t get to judge me.”

He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “I’m not judging you. I’m trying to save you.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of the streetlight buzzed above us. His eyes were full of something I couldn’t name — anger, fear, love — all tangled together.

“You don’t have to go back there,” he said finally. “You can stay with me. You don’t need him.”

But I did.

Or at least I thought I did.

Because as broken as Dr. Gray made me feel, the thought of walking away from him terrified me even more.

So I just shook my head and whispered, “You don’t understand.”

Jeremy sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, stepping back toward his car, “I guess I don’t.”

The engine roared to life, and before he drove off, he leaned out the window.

“One day, you’ll see him for what he is,” he said. “And when you do… I just hope it’s not too late.”

He was gone before I could think of what to say.

And even now, years later, I still hear his voice — not angry, not cruel.

Just right.

Present — Dr. Rowan’s Office

The office is too quiet. Too calm. I hate it. I hate that it makes me feel exposed.

I sit across from Dr. Rowan, arms crossed, jaw tight. My fingers fidget with the hem of my sleeve, but I refuse to meet his eyes.

“You’re still here,” I snap finally, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “After all the silent appointments.”

He leans back slightly, calm as ever. “I am. I told you I would be.”

I laugh—bitter, hollow. “Why? You can’t fix me. You can’t make any of this go away. Everyone else left. Everyone else gave up. Why are you still trying?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “Because giving up isn’t the same as helping. And I haven’t given up on you because I don’t believe in you—I believe in your ability to heal.”

I shake my head violently. “You don’t get it! You don’t know what it’s like to be… like me. Broken. Used. Hollowed out.”

My teeth grind together. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want anyone. I survived this far on my own. I’ve made it through every nightmare, every party, every pill, every night he—”

The words catch in my throat, choking me. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“If you would talk to me,” Dr. Rowan says softly, “I could understand.”

I glare at him, heat rising in my chest, anger boiling under my skin.

“I do understand that you’ve been used,” he says quietly, leaning forward just enough that I can feel the sincerity in his voice. “That your trust has been shattered. And that anger, that rage you feel toward me right now—that’s okay. It’s real. It’s yours. But I’m not here to take it away. I’m here to help you survive it… and move forward, not stay trapped in it.”

He pauses, voice lower now. “But I can only do what you allow me to do.”

The anger inside me surges like fire in my veins. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t move. Just sits there. Still. Steady.

He sighs softly. “You always jump to anger,” he says, not unkindly. “Right now, you want to yell, maybe throw something. Don’t you?”

His tone isn’t judgmental—just calm, too calm.

It makes me hate him a little for it.

I look away, staring out the window, watching the cars go by—each one moving, escaping, going somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

“You can be angry,” he says quietly. “You can feel pissed off. I would be if I were you. I don’t know your whole story, but I know you were robbed of so much—your childhood, your innocence…” He stops, his voice heavy with something almost like sorrow. “You don’t have to bury it all. Don’t bury your feelings. Feel them—but in a safe, healthy way.”

“I’m not a victim,” I say back coldly.

“But you are,” he answers gently. “Not of them—of your past. Because that’s how you’re choosing to live.”

I take a deep breath, choking down the words I want to scream.

Journal Entry — Unfiltered

I keep seeing his face.

Every time I close my eyes, it’s there — the same man.

The one who took everything from me.

I was nine. Maybe ten. It all blurs together now.

He’d come around the house — sometimes with others, sometimes alone.

My mom would smile, laugh too loud, pour him drinks.

And I’d sit there on the edge of the couch, small and quiet, pretending I didn’t exist.

The first time it happened, I didn’t even understand what was happening.

I just remember the smell — alcohol, sweat, smoke — and how heavy the air felt.

How my mom’s laughter echoed from the kitchen while everything in me went still.

After that, I stopped being a kid.

I told her once.

I thought maybe if I said it out loud, she’d believe me.

She didn’t even look up from her drink.

She said I was lying. That I was trying to ruin her life.

That I was jealous.

Jealous.

So I learned how to lie too.

How to smile when he came over.

How to sit at the table while his hand brushed against me like it was an accident.

How to act normal.

How to die quietly inside and call it fine.

Eventually, I started thinking maybe it really was my fault.

Maybe I did something. Maybe I was bad.

Because if it wasn’t my fault, then why didn’t she stop it?

I hated him.

I hated her.

But mostly, I hated myself.

And every time I had to see him — every time she invited him back — it reminded me that I didn’t matter.

That I was just something to be used.

Sometimes I think that’s why I drink. Why I use.

Because it’s the only way to quiet the noise — to stop feeling him, stop seeing him, stop remembering that I was just a child and nobody cared.

And maybe… if I destroy myself enough, it’ll finally stop hurting.

Journal Entry — Trap-House Nights

Mom said we were just “going to hang out for a bit.”

It was never a bit.

It was the same dim houses, the same people who laughed too loud, the same air thick with smoke and something that made my stomach twist.

They called those places fun.

To me, they smelled like danger — old carpet, sweat, ash, and cheap liquor.

The walls were stained. The windows covered. The music never stopped.

I’d sit on a ripped couch, watching strangers drift in and out, pretending not to notice the things everyone else laughed at.

Sometimes they’d joke at my expense, treat me like part of the entertainment.

I learned to smile when they expected it, to freeze when they didn’t.

If I kept still enough, maybe they’d forget I was there.

By the end of the night, the room always looked the same —

bodies slumped over, bottles tipped, my mother lost somewhere in the haze.

I’d stare at my hands and try to convince myself they still belonged to me.

The sting on my skin, the smoke in my hair, the noise buzzing in my head — it all blurred until I couldn’t tell what was real.

Journal Entry — Wanted

It’s messed up, isn’t it?

How something that was forced on me became the only thing I learned how to use.

I don’t even know when it started — when I began using sex as a way to survive.

Maybe it was when I realized people would finally look at me that way —

not as a burden, not as a problem, not as the girl nobody wanted —

but as someone they could want, even if it wasn’t real.

It felt like power.

If I could make them want me, I wasn’t the broken little girl anymore.

I was in control.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But it was always a lie.

I used my body the way others used drugs — for escape, for numbness, for that few seconds where I could forget everything else.

I’d let them touch me because it was easier than saying no.

Easier than being alone with the silence in my head.

Sometimes it wasn’t even about wanting them.

Sometimes it was about wanting something — a ride, a place to stay, a distraction, a way out of my own skin.

And I told myself that meant I was in control.

That I wasn’t a victim anymore.

But deep down, I knew I was just giving away the only thing I had left.

Afterward, I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling or the back of some stranger’s head, and feel empty all over again —

like I’d traded another piece of myself just to breathe for a minute.

People think sex is connection.

For me, it was survival.

A language I learned too young.

A weapon and a wound, all at once.

And sometimes I still catch myself craving it — that rush, that fake closeness, that flicker of being seen.

Then the shame hits.

And I remember that every time I think I’m using it to escape,

it’s really just using me.

Present — Dr. Rowan’s Office

The office smells like vanilla . The light is soft — too soft — like it’s trying not to catch me.

I sit across from Dr. Rowan, hands pressed into my thighs, gripping my knees like I can keep myself tethered to the present.

“How are you holding up this week?” he asks.

His voice is gentle, even, but there’s weight behind it — the patient kind of weight that says he knows I’m close to breaking, but he won’t push.

I shrug. Words don’t come easily. When they do, they’re jagged. “I… I don’t know.”

He doesn’t press. Just watches me, quiet and steady.

I feel like if I breathe wrong, I’ll collapse into the chair.

“I keep… thinking about things,” I murmur finally. “Things I try not to. And then they come back like I never left them behind.”

My voice is small — not the kind of small that makes people lean in, but the kind that makes you want to disappear.

“And what happens when they come back?” he asks.

I swallow hard. The room feels smaller. The walls closer. My chest tightens.

“I panic,” I whisper. “I drink. I use. I try to make it quiet. But it never works. It always comes back. Always.”

Dr. Rowan nods slowly, like he’s heard this a hundred times, but it still matters. “And when you think about it here — with me — what do you feel?”

My fingers dig into my lap. “It’s like falling,” I say. “Falling into the hole I’ve been trying to ignore my whole life. And every session, it’s like you’re shining a light down there, and I can’t stop looking.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t judge. “It’s scary to face it, I know. But the more you see it, the more you can name it. And maybe, little by little, learn not to be swallowed by it.”

I laugh — bitter, hollow. “I’ve been trying to name it for years. I thought I could outrun it, forget it, hide it. But every time I open my mouth here, every time I let a little slip, it’s like the rabbit hole gets deeper, darker. Like I never left it at all.”

The clock ticks too loud in here. Always does.

I stare at the rug instead of him, counting the threads like maybe if I keep track of them all, I won’t have to say anything real.

“You’re wasting your time,” I mutter finally, eyes still on the floor.

He tilts his head. “You think so?”

“I know so.” My voice comes out flat. “Everyone tries to fix me. You won’t be any different.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Just lets the silence stretch until it starts to sting.

“People don’t fix things that are already ruined,” I whisper. “They just use what’s left. That’s what everyone does. They take what they want, and when it’s empty, they move on.”

Dr. Rowan’s voice is quiet but certain. “You’ve been used by people who should’ve cared for you.”

I look up at him, sharp. “You think saying it out loud makes it better? It doesn’t. It’s just the truth.”

He nods, thoughtful. “You’re right. It doesn’t make it better. But it helps me understand what you’ve been carrying.”

I cross my arms. “You don’t need to understand. You can’t fix it anyway.”

That’s when he stands and walks over to a shelf by the window. He pulls out a small stone, cracked right through the middle, filled with a shimmer of gold. He sets it on the table between us, letting it catch the light.

“This,” he says, “is called kintsugi. An old Japanese practice. When something breaks — a bowl, a vase, even a rock — they don’t throw it away. They fill the cracks with gold.”

I stare at it, suspicious. “So?”

“So,” he says quietly, “the cracks don’t make it worthless. They make it more beautiful. More valuable. Proof that it was broken… and mended.”

I scoff. “Yeah, well, I’m not a damn vase.”

He smiles — not mocking, just patient. “No. But you’re someone who’s survived being shattered. And that matters. I’m not here to fix you, Dahlia. You’re not broken glass to glue back together. I want to help you heal. To carry what happened without it crushing you.”

I look back at the gold running through the stone. It’s pretty, in a strange way. Stronger for what it’s been through.

I trace one of my own scars through my sleeve and feel something tighten in my chest.

“You really think that’s possible?” I ask, my voice smaller than I mean it to be.

“I do,” he says simply. “Your past doesn’t have to weigh you down forever. It’s part of you, yes — but it doesn’t have to be your whole story. There’s still a life waiting beyond the pain.”

I don’t answer. I don’t even look at him. I just stare at that cracked rock, the gold shining in the seams, and feel something I haven’t felt in a long time — not hope exactly, but the smallest hint of maybe.

The room goes quiet again, but it feels different now — softer, heavier, alive somehow.

I look down at the rock one more time and whisper, mostly to myself,

“I don’t know if I can ever be that.”

Dr. Rowan’s voice is steady, calm. “You already are.”

And for the first time, I almost believe him.

The smell of cardamom and leather hit me

Flashback

I’m fourteen again, standing in the trailer . Mom’s on the phone, laughing too loud, too high to notice me. There’s a man leaning against the counter, one of her band friends. His eyes linger too long. I feel it. I feel him before he even moves closer.

I back up, but there’s nowhere to go. The tile under my bare feet is cold. Mom turns her back, still laughing into the phone, her voice cutting sharp over the static.

He says something low, something I don’t understand but my body does. My hands shake. I look at Mom — my mom — waiting for her to notice. To stop it. But she just keeps talking, like nothing’s happening.

The memory snaps.

Journal Entry — The Thing I Don’t Name

There’s a part of my story I keep sealed behind my teeth.

Even writing this, my hands shake.

It’s easier to talk about the yelling, the bottles, the bruises. People understand those.

This other thing — they look away when you say it.

So I don’t say it.

I just call it the night everything changed.

Sometimes it comes back as flashes: a sound that shouldn’t be in that room, a shadow too close, the way the air felt wrong.

My brain protects me by blurring it, like smudging a drawing until the lines don’t make sense anymore.

But my body remembers.

It flinches at certain smells, certain songs. It freezes when someone stands too close.

For years, I told myself I imagined it. That maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

Easier than believing people can do what they did and still walk around like nothing happened.

But every time I see my reflection, I know. The fear sits just under my skin — quiet, alive.

I don’t remember every detail, and maybe that’s a gift.

What I do remember is the silence after.

The way no one asked the right questions.

The way I learned to laugh too loud so no one could hear me break.

That’s when I stopped being a kid.

That’s when I stopped being safe.

That’s when I started becoming whoever I had to be to survive.

Journal Entry — The Breaking Point

I think that was the moment everything truly came to a head.

The night the police lights flashed outside, red and blue bleeding together like a warning I’d ignored too many times before.

They said they were there to “help.”

Dr. Gray stood beside them, quiet, calm — like he always was when he was hiding something.

But I knew.

They all knew.

I wasn’t a person anymore.

I was a hollow shell — skin and bones, drugs and liquor, nothing left inside to fight back.

They could’ve asked for anything, and I would’ve given it.

Not because I wanted to. Because I didn’t have the strength to say no anymore.

Somewhere between the numbness and the haze, they realized it too.

I was too far gone to protest. Too dependent. Too broken.

As long as they gave me what I craved — pills, powder, drink — they could take whatever they wanted. And they did.

There was nowhere safe.

Nowhere I could run.

Dr. Gray’s house used to feel like safety once — but that was before I learned safety could be a trap too.

After Jeremy died, the last person who ever tried to protect me was gone.

There was no one left to step in. No one to pull me back.

No one to stop them.

They looked at me and didn’t see a girl — just a body, a lost thing, a way to fill their own emptiness.

And I let it happen.

Because I didn’t know how not to.

Because maybe if I gave enough, someone would finally stay.

But they never do.

They take what they want, and then they leave.

And I’m left with the silence again —

the kind that crawls under your skin

and whispers that this is all I’ll ever be.

Present — Dr. Rowan’s Office, One Week Later

I slide into the chair like I’m bracing for impact, even though it’s just me and him in the room. My hands are curled in my lap, knuckles white, pulse thudding loud enough that I can feel it in my ears.

“You made it,” Dr. Rowan says—soft, but firm. Like it’s a fact I can’t argue with.

I snort, bitter. “Not like I had a choice.”

He doesn’t flinch at the edge in my voice. “You’re still angry,” he says. “Why?”

I just stare at the rug. Silence stretches between us until it starts to ache. He sighs quietly, then stands and walks to his desk. When he comes back, he’s holding something.

“Here,” he says, handing me a sketchpad. “I know you write and draw to escape. You don’t have to share it with me if you don’t want to. I won’t look—promise. But for now, just draw how you’re feeling.”

I take the sketchpad from him, setting it down beside me. I don’t open it.

He sits back in his chair. “If you don’t want to talk, if you don’t want to let me help—that’s fine.” His voice is calm, too calm, which only makes the heat in my chest burn hotter.

I want him to stop. Stop pretending he cares. Stop trying to fix me. Stop sitting there like he can see through me.

My fingers find the ring on my hand. I twist it slowly.

“New ring?” he asks gently.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Kind of. It was Jeremy’s.”

He nods. “He meant a lot to you.”

I just nod, staring down at my hands. “He was the only one who saw the real me.”

A pause. Then, softly, “He was your knight.”

I swallow hard, pushing the tears back before they can fall. My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I whisper. “And I was the only one who truly cared.”

The room feels too still after that—like the truth has taken up all the air.

I don’t say anything after that. I stare at the sketchpad, pretending to be interested in the blank pages, my hands clutching it like a lifeline. The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in.

Dr. Rowan watches me carefully. I can feel his eyes on me, soft but steady, tracking every subtle shift in my posture, every tremble in my hands.

“You’re shutting down,” he says quietly, almost to himself, but loud enough that I hear.“I can see it—the way your shoulders tense, the way your gaze drops, the way you hide behind the pad,” he continues gently. “You’re protecting yourself. Again.”I grip the sketchpad tighter. My jaw aches from the tension. “I’m fine,” I mutter, though the lie tastes bitter in my mouth.

He lets the silence stretch for a beat, giving me space. “You don’t have to be fine,” he says finally. “Not here. Not with me. You can feel what’s in you, even the rage, the fear, the sadness… without it swallowing you whole.” Dr. Rowan leans back, giving me space but keeping the weight of his presence, steady, patient. “I see you, Dahlia. Even when you shut down, even when you try to disappear. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I stare at the floor, the sketchpad, the ring on my finger, my chest tight, my hands trembling. I don’t speak. I just sit there, caught between wanting to push him away and wanting, just for a moment, to let someone hold the room with me.

Journal Entry — The Night Everything Shattered

I can’t stop seeing it. I can’t stop hearing it.

It happened after one of those endless nights with Mom at the band shows. I was twelve, maybe thirteen, and I’d already learned to move through the world like a ghost.

Invisible. Silent. Watching. Protecting. Lying. Surviving.

That night, a man I barely knew pulled me into a corner. I froze. I wanted to scream, but my voice had been stolen years ago.

My body trembled, my hands shook, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fight. I just… let it happen.

I told myself it was easier than the screaming that would come later if anyone knew.

Mom didn’t see it. She didn’t care. She never did.

Her laughter carried over the music, her arms wrapped around someone else’s body, and I had to pretend I wasn’t there. Had to pretend I wasn’t broken.

Afterwards, I washed in the cold bathroom, trying to scrub away more than the physical evidence. I wanted to wash away the shame, the terror, the helplessness.

But no matter how hard I rubbed, it stayed in me, like a stain I couldn’t remove.

I had to go back out. Smile. Pretend. Move like everything was normal.

I had to keep Mom safe from Dad, Dad safe from the truth.

I had to keep myself alive — even if alive meant being hollow, silent, used.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what finally made me stop believing in anyone. In anything.

But even writing it now, I feel a small, painful flicker of… anger.

Not at the world. Not yet.

Just at myself.

For letting it happen. For surviving it by pretending.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say it out loud.

But maybe, just maybe, putting it on paper is the first step to not being invisible anymore.

Journal Entry — The Day Everything Broke

I remember the day I finally got clean.

The day I decided I wanted better.

That maybe I was worth something.

I was seventeen, sitting in Dr. Gray’s office — the same man who was supposed to help me heal.

I had just caught him in the car with my mom.

I didn’t put it together at first when she said she was “going to see Gray.”

I thought she meant someone else.

Not him.

Not my Dr. Gray.

I sat there waiting for him, my stomach twisting, disgust crawling up my throat.

When he finally walked in, a little out of breath, he said, “Sorry I’m late,” like nothing had happened.

I rolled my eyes.

“Little Lia,” he said, reaching for my arm.

“Don’t,” I snapped, dropping the photos of him and my mom in the car onto his desk.

He froze. Then glanced down.

“I can explain—”

“I don’t need you to.”

My voice shook, but I didn’t back down.

“All this time, I thought you were helping me.”

Something in his face hardened.

“Jeremy was right about you.”

He slammed his hands on the desk so hard I jumped.

“You have no right—” he started, his voice rising.

“I trusted you!” I shouted, tears burning my eyes. “I gave you everything. I gave up everything.”

My voice cracked. “I gave up my baby for you.”

That stopped him — just for a second.

Then the mask slipped.

That calm, professional face melted into something dark, something I’d seen before but never wanted to name.

“I risked everything for you,” he hissed, sweeping his desk clean in one violent motion. “I gave you everything you asked for. I could’ve lost my job over you. I took you back after you chose him!”

His voice wasn’t calm anymore.

It was cold. Angry. Possessive.

“Fuck you!” I shouted back, my voice cracking and echoing off the walls.

The office — his perfect, sterile little world — turned into a war zone.

Papers flew. Books hit the floor. A photo frame shattered.

The sharp scent of anger filled the air — his and mine.

I didn’t care anymore.

Not about being polite.

Not about being small.

Not about protecting him.

All the years.

All the secrets.

All the pain I had swallowed.

All the times I begged him to care — it all exploded at once.

“You used me,” I spat, my hands shaking so hard I could barely keep them at my sides.

“You used both of us. You made me believe you cared, and you were just another fucking liar.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t apologize.

He just stared at me — this cold, empty look that told me I was finally disposable.

Something inside me broke then.

But not the way it used to.

Not in the quiet, collapsing way.

This time, it broke loud.

I grabbed my bag, shoved the door open, and didn’t look back.

For once, I didn’t cry.

For once, I didn’t run to numb it.

I walked out of that office, shaking and alive, and I swore I would never let another person own my pain again.

That was the day I got clean.

Not because I wanted to be better.

But because I was done letting the people who broke me keep the pieces.

Journal Entry — I Hate Him

I hate him.

Every inch of him. Every word he ever said, every touch that wasn’t mine to give, every lie that smelled like care but tasted like poison.

Dr. Gray thinks he owned me.

Thinks he broke me.

Thinks he could bend me into something small, silent, obedient.

He was wrong.

I remember every time he looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was a toy he could pick up, use, and toss aside. Every time he smiled at me with that calm, cold thing in his eyes — like he was proud of what he did.

I want to scream at him. I want to rip the words out of his mouth. I want him to feel the hatred I’ve carried for years, the fire that Jeremy lit in me before the world tried to snuff it out.

Because I will survive.

I will survive, not for him, not for my mother, not for anyone who ever looked at me and decided I wasn’t worth saving.

I survive for Jeremy.

For the boy who tried to shield me when the world was falling apart.

For the part of me he believed in, the part he refused to let die.

Dr. Gray took everything he thought he could take.

But he didn’t take me.

He didn’t touch the fire that’s been burning in my chest since I first realized I could fight.

I hate him so much I can feel it like venom in my veins.

It makes me sharp.

It makes me stronger.

It makes me alive.

And I will carry that hate like armor.

I will carry Jeremy’s memory like a blade.

And I will walk through the ruins he left behind, every brick, every scar, every lie, and I will not break.

Because I refuse.

Refuse to let him win.

Refuse to be the girl he thought he could destroy.

Refuse to be anything less than everything he can never touch.

I hate him.

I hate him.

And I will survive.

Journal Entry — The Year I Learned to Hide

I think I was nine the first time I realized I was afraid all the time.

Not just when the yelling started — but even in the quiet. Especially in the quiet.

The quiet meant something was waiting.

A slammed door, a broken dish, a voice rising from another room.

I used to count the spaces between sounds, trying to guess which one would explode next.

That was the year I started hiding things.

The report cards with too many red marks, the drawings with dark colors, the bruises that didn’t match the stories Mom told. I learned to wear long sleeves even when it was hot. I learned how to smile without showing my teeth.

People at school thought I was shy.

They didn’t know I was studying safety — memorizing exits, faces, moods.

Every friend I made had to pass a test in my head: would they still like me if they knew what home looked like?

Most didn’t make it that far.

I built a whole world in my closet — flashlight, blanket, a small radio that only played fuzzy stations. I’d curl up there at night and pretend I was someone else, somewhere else. I’d imagine parents who laughed softly, who said goodnight and meant it.

Sometimes I’d whisper things to the dark, like I’m still here, just to prove it to myself.

Other nights, I’d write tiny notes on scrap paper: You’re okay. You’re quiet. You’re invisible.

They felt like spells — weak ones, but all I had.

That was the year I learned how to leave my body without moving an inch.

Just stare at the ceiling and float somewhere above the noise until it ended.

It’s strange how easy it is, once you practice.

I got so good at hiding that even I started to forget where I’d gone.

Journal Entry — The Flood That Never Stopped

I can’t keep it in anymore.

I’ve spent my whole life pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending she didn’t let it happen.

But she did.

She watched.

She let them hurt me.

I used to think she didn’t see. I told myself she was too drunk, too lost, too broken herself. But she knew. I saw it in her eyes — that flicker of something cruel, like she wanted me to suffer the way she did.

She handed me over with a smile. Told me to be polite. Told me not to make a scene. Then went back to her drink.

And every time it happened, she looked the other way. Sometimes she even laughed.

I can still hear it — her laugh. That sound lives in my bones.

She hit me when I tried to speak. She called me names when I cried. Said I was dramatic, said I wanted attention, said I made everything up.

But she knew. She knew what they did. She knew what she did.

She broke me.

Piece by piece. Word by word. Blow by blow.

And the worst part?

There’s still a part of me that wants her to love me.

After everything. After all the bruises, the silence, the nights I hid under my bed whispering that it would stop — I still wanted her to hold me and say, “I’m sorry.”

But she never did.

She never will.

I hate her.

I hate her for every time she looked at me and saw something she could destroy.

I hate her for every lie she told to make herself look like a victim.

I hate her for making me believe it was my fault.

I hate her for making me hate myself.

She took everything from me — my safety, my childhood, my voice.

And what she didn’t take, she gave away.

When I close my eyes, I still see her — lipstick smudged, cigarette burning between her fingers, looking right at me like I was the problem, like I was the reason she was miserable.

“You ruin everything,” she’d say.

And maybe I believed it once.

But not anymore.

Because I didn’t ruin anything.

She did.

I survived her.

I survived them.

And I am still here — angry, shaking, bleeding from the inside out, but alive.

And for the first time, I’m not hiding it.

I’m not protecting her.

I’m not protecting anyone.

She can rot in her own silence now.

I’ve carried her shame long enough.

Final Entry — The Words I Couldn’t Say

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say it all out loud.

Some things still feel too heavy to speak, like if I let them out, they’d take up all the air in the room. Writing them down was easier — it always was. The page doesn’t judge. It doesn’t flinch. It just listens.

So if you’re reading this, Dr. Rowan, it means I finally left this notebook for you.

Not because I want you to fix me.

Not because I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.

But because I needed someone to know.

I’m done holding it all inside. Every scar, every bruise, every word that was whispered or screamed at me:

The abuse. The neglect. The betrayal.

The men who used me. The mother who couldn’t see me. The father who didn’t know how.

The nights I tried to disappear and thought no one would notice.

Jeremy’s death. The hollowed-out versions of myself I became to survive.

The drugs, the alcohol, the meaningless connections I traded for the safety I never had.

The lies I told, the secrets I swallowed, the screams that had no one to hear them.

The soul I thought was broken beyond repair.

All of it. Every last piece.

And I’m still here. Somehow. Still breathing. Still trembling. Still alive.

I don’t know where I’m going next. I just know I’m not going back.

I’m not her anymore — not the girl they broke, not the girl he used, not the ghost Jeremy left behind.

I’m Dahlia.

And for the first time, I think that might be enough.

Writing it was easier than saying it out loud.

Maybe someday, I’ll be brave enough to tell you the rest.

Final Scene — Dr. Rowan’s Office

I slide the notebook across the desk, my hands trembling, the weight of everything inside pressing into the wood like it’s alive.

Dr. Rowan doesn’t reach for it right away. He just sits there, watching me, calm, steady, like he’s waiting for me to run, waiting for me to take it back. I don’t. I let it rest there.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” he says quietly, voice soft, careful. “Not yet.”

I bite my lip. My chest is tight. “It’s the things I was… am too scared to say out loud. While most of it’s there, it still doesn’t feel like enough.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Enough for what?”

“For you to understand,” I whisper. “For anyone to. It’s ugly. It’s twisted. It’s everything I swore I’d bury.”

He leans forward just enough for me to feel the steadiness in his voice. “I don’t need you to make it sound pretty, Dahlia. I just need it to be real.”

A bitter laugh slips out, shaky and low. “Real is all I’ve got left.”

He nods. “Then that’s enough.”

The silence between us stretches — not heavy, just full. Like the air is holding something fragile and alive.

I don’t look at him when I speak again. “You’re the first person who hasn’t looked away. Everyone else… they either want to fix me or forget me.”

“I don’t want either,” he says. “I just want to help you heal. You’ve been surviving for so long, you’ve forgotten what it feels like to just exist without running.”

My throat tightens. “What if I don’t know how?”

“Then we’ll learn together.”

The words settle somewhere deep, in a place that’s still raw but not unreachable. For a long time, I just sit there, breathing, trying to believe that maybe—just maybe—he means it.

I glance at the notebook again, its edges worn, the pages swollen with everything I’ve never said. “It’s all in there,” I whisper. “Every piece I’ve been too afraid to touch.”

Dr. Rowan nods slowly. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

I nod back, barely, my voice cracking. “It’s a lot.”

He offers a small, knowing smile. “So are you.”

The clock ticks softly in the background, and for the first time, the sound doesn’t make me flinch. I take a shaky breath, my chest still tight but somehow lighter.

Maybe this isn’t the end of my story. Maybe it’s just where I finally stop running.