Watching her through the lens, I feel something I’m not supposed to feel. It’s a fierce need to fix her, to make this right. But I don’t know how. I’ve created a mess, and now I’m standing in the middle of it, feeling every inch of it.
My poor angel.
She’s haunted.
I know what it looks like. This isn’t the first time she’s fallen apart this way. This wasn’t just about the box. It’s something deeper, something more ingrained in her. Her reaction wasn’t new. It’s a habit. A reflex. She’s been here before. Maybe I’m the trigger, but there’s something in the way she spirals that tells me it’s not just me.
Four more days until I can see her in person. Four days of torturing myself, watching her fall apart, wondering how much of this I can take before I break too.
Perhaps I should request an extra session, stretch my control even further. Going so long without talking to her feels like a thousand needles in my chest. It’s fucking torture.
But I can’t fix this from a distance. Not yet.
I need to be closer. I need to watch her fall apart in front of me again, to understand why she’s like this. Why she reacts this way. It’s the only thing that makes sense now.
6
Embrace It
Emily's Search History: do you legally have to report a missing person?
Emily
MyheadpoundswhenI wake. The events of yesterday play in my head on a loop like a broken record.
A finger.
Tom’s finger.
What the fuck do I do with that?
My phone vibrates.
Carina:Lunch today?
Seeing her name is like a balm. Carina. She’ll know what to do.
Emily:How about breakfast?
Her responseis immediate.
Carina:See you in an hour.
I roll out of bed, groaning when I see the bags under my eyes. My sleep was shoddy—filled with images of Tom and a mysterious masked man watching me.
There isn’t much time to make myself presentable, but I do my best, smoothing out my hair, wiggling into my pencil skirt and blouse.
By the time I get to the cafe, I’m sweating from the tube. I’m also late.
My eyes sweep the room, landing on Carina. Her pink hair is a beacon, impossible to miss. She gives me a tentative wave, her nervous smile like a question—worried I might turn and walk the other way.
Instead, I walk straight to her, wrapping her in a tight hug.
We settle into seats once we’ve ordered, hot drinks and sandwiches laid out in front of us.
“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me,” Carina says, her voice soft, uncertain.
Carina is an old patient of mine—one of my first. She came to me scared, alone, trying to piece herself back together after years of abuse and trauma.