My stomach clenches. “I have that online training thing at eleven,” I say, keeping my voice light.
He nods slowly, as if evaluating. “Good,” he says. “You need structure.”
I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah.”
He turns back to the counter and starts rinsing his mug, taking his time like he’s making the moment last on purpose.
Then, casually—“Did you set an alarm?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I lie.
Or not quite lie. Because Ididset one.
I just don’t trust myself to hear it. Or to remember what itmeans when it goes off. Sometimes I stare at a reminder like it’s written in another language.
It’s humiliating.
He doesn’t respond right away.
Then he finally looks at me fully. It’s brief, but it’s more than a glance. A full scan.
“You look tired,” he says.
It sounds like concern, but it lands like an accusation.
I shrug. “Just… a lot going on.”
He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.
“You know,” he says, “you really have to stop letting your mind control you.”
He says it like he’s handing me a gift. Like he’s offering wisdom. Like my trauma is a character flaw and not the aftermath of something that happened to me.
“I’m trying,” I say.
My mind spins.What else could I be doing?I’ve found a therapist. I’ve scheduled an intake appointment. I’ve been walking, working out, reading the books, listening to the podcasts. Healing doesn’t happen on demand. It doesn’t come in a two-day shipping box.
He nods, satisfied, like I’ve confirmed the correct answer. Then he gestures toward the living room. “Come sit,” he says. “I want to talk.”
My chest tightens.Idon’t want to talk. But it isn’t a request. With Adrian, it never is.
I follow him into the living room and sit on the edge of the couch, perched like I might need to flee.
He sits across from me, legs spread, coffee balanced in his hand like he’s posing for a magazine.
He studies me for a moment. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about you.”
My stomach flips. Not in a good way.
“I think you’re still in victim mode.”
The blood drains from my face.
He says it gently, like he’s being careful. Like he’s doing me a favor by telling me something hard.
Like he isn’t casually punching me in the throat.
“I—what?”