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THE MEETING WITH MY FAMILY FELT like a setback. A huge one.
I was starting to feel a little bit lighter, like maybe this place was doing something, and then-boom-right back where I started. Maybe even worse.
Lately, everything feels like that. One step forward, two steps back. Rinse and repeat.
I can’t even bring myself to go to group sessions most days. And when I do, I just sit there. Zoned out. Counting the seconds.
The stories all blur together and none of them sound like mine. It’s like I don’t even belong here, but I don’t belong anywhere else either.
In therapy, I barely speak. Dr. Adensina keeps trying to get through to me, with her soft voice and steady eyes, like she’s being patient or whatever-but I know she’s just waiting. Waiting for me to open up. Waiting for me to say something real. But I don’t want to. I can’t.
Every day feels the same. Like I’m stuck in a loop I can’t break out of. Wake up. Pretend I’m okay. Stay quiet. Go to bed. Repeat.
I hate it here.
I hate the way people look at me. Like I’m some spoiled rich girl who probably took too many pills at a party for attention.
That’s what they all think, I can see it in their eyes. They know about my family’s money-of course they do. It gets around. Someone always talks. And the minute they find out, they decide you don’t deserve to be broken.
Like money should’ve protected me.
I want to leave. I want to get out of here. But the only way to leave is by making progress. And if I make progress, I get… rewards. Like family visitations. Yeah, no thanks.
Not after last time. Not after that.
Dr. Adensina keeps trying to bring it up. I know what she’s doing. Nudging, hinting, gently steering the conversation back to that moment-like maybe this time I’ll want to relive it.
I don’t.
I want to forget it happened. I want to forget they sat there and made it all about themselves. That they blamed me instead of trying to understand what they did to me. What they kept doing.
She also keeps bringing up my friends. Or trying to.
I know what she’s doing there too. She wants me to talk about him. About Aaron.
But I don’t say a word. Because talking about Aaron means talking about everything. Including the last time we spoke. Including the things I said to him. The look on his face. The way I made him feel like none of it mattered.
I can’t go there. Not yet.
“Carmen,” Dr. Adesina sighs, breaking the silence. She puts her notepad and pen down on the arm of her chair. “I have something for you.”
My head lifts at that. For the first time all session, my eyes meet hers. “You do?” I ask, hesitant.
She nods. A small, gentle smile curves her lips. “But it’s quid pro quo, okay? You have to give me something in return.”
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity slipping into my voice even though I try to sound bored.
She gets up and walks to her desk. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a stack of envelopes held together with an elastic band.
I blink. “Mail?”
She sits back down, the bundle resting on her lap. “Who’s Aaron?”
I freeze. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, pretending to sound confused. But my heart is suddenly pounding, like it knows something I don’t.
“You do,” she replies gently. “You’ve mentioned him before.”
“You’re imagining things, Doc.”
She just raises her brows at me. “If you don’t know him, then why is he sending you letters?”
My stomach drops. The breath gets knocked out of me. “What?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“Letters,” she says again, nodding. “He’s been sending you letters. Every few days. Sometimes every day.”
My hands shake. I don’t even try to hide it. “He… he is?”
Dr. Adensina nods and lifts the bundle. “Tell me about him, Carmen.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know if I should. But something softens in me, maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s the hope, and the words start to fall out before I can stop them.
“He’s…” I pause. “He’s a friend.”
“How did you two meet?”
A small smile tugs at my lips, and I hate how involuntary it is. “I walked into the boys’ locker room to drop something off for my dad. He was there.”
That day. God. The image of him, shirtless in grey sweatpants, flashes in my head.
“What happened after that?” she asks.
“He couldn’t open his locker,” I say quietly. “So he asked me for help.”
Dr. Adensina chuckles, that wide warm smile still on her face. “I’ve heard about JJ, Valeria, and Aly. But you never talk about Aaron. Why?”
I shrug, picking at my nails. “We argued. The day before I came here. It was my fault. I said some things that I regret.”
“How was your friendship before that?”
“Good.” I smile again, just a little. “Somehow he always knew when something was wrong. He wouldn’t bring it up or make a big deal out of it… he’d just… take me out. Make jokes. Be an idiot until I laughed.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
I think about it. Really think. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “Happy. Special, maybe.”
Dr. Adensina stands up and walks over to hand me the letters. I take them with shaking hands. There’s so many of them. At least ten. Probably more. My throat tightens again.
“I hope this makes you feel better,” she tells me softly. “And realise that there are people who miss you and are waiting for you to get better.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“I’ll end the session early today. So you can read them.”
“Thank you,” I breathe out, barely louder than a whisper.
She just smiles in response. Kind and quiet and warm. I don’t wait. The moment I’m out of her office, I bolt down the hallway. My trainers slap against the linoleum floor. When I make it to my room, I slam the door shut and jump onto the twin-size bed.
I drop all the letters in front of me, sorting through them frantically, trying to find the earliest one. The very first.
When I do, I just stare at it for a second.
Then I let out a shaky breath… and finally, I open it.
Hey Carmen,
I don’t even know if you’ll read this. Maybe you’ll rip it up, or ignore it, or laugh at how stupid it is that I’m writing you like it’s 1900. That’s okay. I get it.
But on the off chance that you do read, I’m going to continue.
I don’t really know what to say, and I’ve rewritten this first line at least six times already. Nothing sounds right. Nothing feels big enough to say what I want to say. But I guess I’ll just start with the truth, I miss you. A lot.
I miss your sarcasm. Your stupid eye rolls. The way you say “you’re so annoying” every time I make a joke, even though I know you secretly think I’m hilarious (you do, right?)
I miss you in the small ways too. The texts. The way you always sat with your legs up on chairs like it was your house. The way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous. Or avoid eye contact with me.
The last time we talked, I know things didn’t end well. I know you were hurting. I know I made it worse by putting you in a bad position. You woke up in my room with probably barely any recollection of the night before, scared and lost.
I’ve been thinking about that moment every day since. Playing it over in my head, wondering what I could’ve said or done differently. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get to explain or apologise properly. So for now, I’ll just say: I’m sorry. For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For not knowing how bad things really were.
I just hope you know, I wasn’t judging you for anything. I never would do that. All I’ve ever wanted to do was help you. Not because you’re a project, something I want to fix. But because I care about you. I really do.
I know the place you’re in probably sucks. I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but I know it’s hard. And I want you to know that even if it feels like no one sees you right now, I do. I see you. I’ve always seen you.
I don’t know if you’ll remember but at the first party of the year, when you and I were outside, you asked me that. If I see you. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll keep writing. Even if you never write back. Even if you hate me.
Because the truth is, I still care. So much.
And I’m still here.
Always,
-Aaron
I don’t even realise I’m holding my breath until I finish reading the letter. And then it hits me. All of it.
The ache in my chest. The burn behind my eyes. The way my hands won’t stop trembling as I hold the paper.
He misses me? He’s sorry? Why is he apologising? I’m the one who messed up. I’m the one who pushed him away. I lied to him. I hurt him. I said things that should’ve made him hate me.
And he’s still here… writing me letters.
My eyes blur and I blink fast, but it’s too late, one tear falls, and then another. I swipe them away quickly, like that’ll stop the rest from coming. It doesn’t.
He still cares. Even after everything. Even after me.
And the worst part is… I miss him too. God, I miss him. His dumb jokes. That cocky grin. The way he’d quietly keep an eye on me like he was always waiting for me to fall just so he could catch me.
I miss feeling like someone actually saw me. Like someone knew me.
I clutch the letter tighter and press it to my chest like it’ll somehow bring him closer. Like if I close my eyes hard enough, maybe I’ll open them and he’ll be standing right there, arms crossed and smirking, calling me “Blondie” like he used to.
But when I open my eyes, all I see is the white ceiling. And I hate it here. I want to see him. Just once. Even if I don’t deserve it.
But maybe… Maybe if he hasn’t given up on me… I shouldn’t either.
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