And underneath everything else—quieter now but more certain than before—the thought returns.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable here.
CHAPTER 3
IVY
3 Months Earlier
Iwake up with my heart already racing.
I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it feels like to wake up normally. Like a person. Like someone who isn’t bracing for impact before she’s even opened her eyes.
At least I could have had a nightmare, or maybe even a nice dream. Either would be preferable to this shapeless morning dread. But waking in a panic is just status quo at this point.
My Apple Watch buzzes against my wrist. I turn the alarm off and immediately feel it—that heavy, familiar exhaustion that sits behind my eyes and drags through my body.
I used to be functional—the kind of person who could juggle a job, a social life, deadlines, workouts… all of it. I used to answer texts. Show up to things. Remember things.
Now I can handle one thing a day. One task. One plan. One obligation. Anything more than that and it feels like I’m trying to climb a mountain with no oxygen.
They call it brain fog. Trauma brain. Nervous system dysregulation—I’ve googled it so many times the words don’t even feel real anymore.
All I know is that my thoughts don’t stick. They slide away before I can hold onto them. I forget everything. Miss things. Let things slip.
Then I sit there afterward, staring at my calendar like it’s evidence against me, and tear myself apart for it.
What is wrong with you?
How do you forget things you care about?
How are you this… useless?
It’s like my brain cloned him and stuck him inside my head. Even when he’s gone, he’s still there. Sometimes worse. A perpetual voice in my head.You’re so dramatic. That’s not how it happened. You’re remembering it wrong.
I push myself up and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The room is small. Temporary. The kind of place you stay when your life has blown up and you’re pretending it’s just a short stop.
I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. The temperature is wrong no matter what I do with it. Too hot, then too cold. I stand under it anyway, letting the water hit my shoulders.
I start washing my hair. And then my stomach drops.
Hair. Too much.
Not normal shedding.Clumps.
They slide through my fingers and collect in my hand, wet and heavy, like something being pulled out of me.
I just stand there, staring at the drain. My mind goes toBaywatch. An episode I watched as a child, where someone was sick and her hair started falling out in the shower. I remember thinking back then that illness was something that lived inside you and slowly dismantled you.
Now I’m standing here, holding my own hair in my hand, and the thought hits fast and irrational.What if something’s wrong with me? What if I’m actually sick and I just… haven’t realized it yet?
I swallow hard and force myself to breathe. Stress can do this. Trauma can do this. I know that. But knowing doesn’t stop my hands from shaking.
When I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the edge of the bed with my laptop open, dripping water everywhere like I don’t even care.
I type it in.