One Year After
CALEB
The first thing I do when I wake up isn’t panic, and that still surprises me.
There’s a half-second of disorientation—the unfamiliar weight on my hand, the blur of morning light through the condo blinds, Miguel’s arm heavy across my waist—but it doesn’t tip straight into terror like it used to.
I lie there and do the inventory Dr. K drilled into me.
Breath: a little fast, but not choking.
Heart: beating, not stampeding.
Thoughts: loud-ish, not screaming.
“Volume?” Miggy mumbles into the back of my neck, voice thick with sleep.
He doesn’t open his eyes, he just asks, like when brushing his teeth or checking the weather. Like it’s normal.
“Three,” I say. “Maybe two-point-five. Morning brain’s still booting up.”
“Nice,” he says. His arm tightens for a second. “Mine’s like… four. Dream was weird. You were a seagull.”
I snort. “Sexy.”
“You were still giving me attitude,” he adds. “Just in bird form.”
“That tracks,” I say, and he kisses the back of my shoulder once before rolling away to steal my pillow.
A year ago, waking up meant staring at the ceiling and waiting to see if my brain was going to try to kill me again.
Today, I know exactly what my brain is capable of and I have a snazzy checklist, a therapist, a partner, two parents, and one extremely supportive basketball team that keeps me in line when I’m feeling edgy.
Progress.
Dr. K’s office looks the same as it did the first time I sat on this couch and tried not to hurl: framed abstract ocean print, tissue box, notebook on her lap, and one eyebrow that could dismantle a personality if she really let it.
“You look… solid,” she says, studying me over the rim of her glasses. “That’s my clinical term.”
“Highly technical,” I say. “Bill my insurance extra.”
She smiles. “How’s the last month been?”
I shift, thinking back. There’ve been spikes—the anniversary, midterms, one stupid comment from a teammate that landed like a sucker punch. There’ve been shitty nights. A couple of bad dreams that left my sheets damp with sweat and my hands shaking like I’d just stepped out of the bedroom again.
But there were other things too.
Calling her office instead of waiting a week and pretending I was fine. Telling Miguel I was at a seven instead of lying and saying four. Leaving practice early one day because the volume was climbing, and I didn’t trust myself with a locker room full of towels and razors.
“Messy,” I admit. “But… honest. I’m not hiding the spiral as long anymore.”
“That’s huge,” she says. “No attempts.”
It’s not a question.
“No attempts,” I echo. Saying it out loud feels like pinning a medal on my own chest. “No plans. Some passive ‘it would be easier if…’ thoughts, but I’m catching them earlier. Using the stupid skills. Texting before I hit eight, not after.”
Her eyes soften. “How’s the part of you that’s planning a future?”
I think of the treehouse photo on our living room shelf, printed and framed, Miguel’s arm around my shoulders, both of us windblown and grinning. I think of the way my calendar app actually has more than one month in it now. Classes. Pick-up games. Volunteer work at the local rec center. Therapy.
Miguel’s name, over and over.
“It’s… less horror movie,” I say slowly. “Still fuzzy. It still feels like an indie film half the time. But it’s… mine.”
“And?” she prompts and my face heats.
“And… he’s in every version of it,” I admit. “Miggy. In some form. Even if the details change.”
Dr. Kaur nods, satisfied. “Good,” she says. “You don’t have to know the whole script. Just the next scene or two.”
I roll my eyes. “You and your metaphors.”
“You love my metaphors,” she says, and I can’t even deny it.
Back at the condo, the kitchen looks like a small hurricane named Mamá passed through—Tupperware, foil-wrapped containers, and a note that says:
Eat. Hydrate. No se salten comidas. I love you. – Mamá
Miguel’s at the counter with a tape measure, tongue poked into his cheek, measuring his own finger.
“I might regret asking this, but what the fuck are you doing?” I ask, tossing my backpack onto a chair.
“Science,” he says too fast. “Or wait… math? I saw this ring tattoo idea—like a circuit pattern—and I was curious how big my finger actually is.”
I squint at him. “Right,” I say. “That sounds very believable, baby.”
He shrugs, not looking at me. “It was a cool idea,” he says. “Also, mind your business.”
Grinning, I steal a chip out of the open bag on the counter. “My business is absolutely your fingers,” I point out. “All ten of them.”
That makes him laugh and snap the tape measure closed. “You’re in a good mood,” he says. “Therapy go well?”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing a container of leftovers. “We talked about values. Apparently, one of mine is ‘not dying repeatedly.’”
“Strong choice,” he says. “Very on-brand.”
He steps into me as I’m microwaving my food, tucks a curl behind my ear, and kisses my forehead. The volume in my chest drops a whole number.
Later, when we’re curled up on the couch, my feet in his lap and his hand absently tracing circles on my ankle, my eyes keep drifting to that treehouse photo.
Almost a year since the trip.
Over a year since I almost didn’t get any more trips at all.
“For the record,” I say, voice sleepy, “if you ever get a ring tattoo before telling me, I’m divorcing you before we’re married.”
Miguel snorts. “Relax, hermoso,” he says. “If I ever do anything ring-related, you’re gonna be the first to know.”
My stomach does a weird little flip, and I pretend it’s the microwave food. On the shelf, the treehouse smiles back at me from behind the glass, a captured moment of two men who chose to stay.
I plan on giving them a lot more moments to frame.