Chapter 9 Unspoken Thoughts
The room was too quiet. I stared at the bookshelf behind her. Everything was too neat. Like nothing bad had ever happened in here.
"So," she said gently, her pen resting loosely in her hand, "what do you want out of this?"
I stared at the wall behind her. The bookshelf. Perfectly lined up. Symmetrical. It looked like a place where things made sense. Where people didn't leave. Where love didn't rot under the weight of memory.
"I want to be normal," I said, finally. "And I want to get my Berrie back."
She waited a beat. "Okay. Let's start there since this is what pushed you to come here. Why did she leave?"
I didn't answer right away. My eyes fixed on a knot in the hardwood floor, like maybe I could stare a hole straight through it. My fingers twisted the sleeve of my hoodie tighter around my fist until the fabric bit into my knuckles.
"Because people leave," I muttered.
Her tone stayed calm, patient. "But this time, you said you deserved it."
I nodded once. Swallowed hard. "Yeah. This time I did."
She didn't flinch. "Why?"
The air in the room felt heavier, like gravity had turned up a notch. I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek, trying to find the words. They didn't want to come. When they finally did, they scraped on the way out.
"She found the letters."
A pause. "What letters?"
"To my ex," I said, the word catching in my throat like something sharp. "Lyra."
Her face didn't change. No surprise, no judgment. Just a small, single nod that said, Go on.
"I stared at the carpet between us, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of my sleeve like it could distract me from the shame crawling up my spine.
"It was... a whole damn pile of them," I said finally, voice thick.
"Stuff I never said out loud. Stuff I didn't know how to say.
" A hollow laugh slipped out—dry and bitter, like it had been stuck in my throat for years.
"Romantic crap. Feelings I thought I'd buried six feet deep, but apparently they were just.. . hibernating."
The therapist didn't interrupt. She just watched me, patient and still.
"And Berrie read them?" she asked after a moment.
"Yeah," I said. "Every last one." I shifted, suddenly too aware of the way the chair creaked beneath me. My hand went to the back of my neck, rubbing at the tension coiled there like maybe I could scrub the memory out. "Like it was written yesterday."
She tilted her head. "And was it?"
"No." I shook my head hard. "I mean, the last one was eight months ago.
But that doesn't matter, right?" My voice sharpened, frustration rising.
"It doesn't matter when you're the girl standing in a room full of another girl's ghost. Doesn't matter when your name isn't the one folded into paper and scrawled across years of grief. "
The silence that followed wasn't cold. It was careful. She let it stretch just long enough for it to sting before stepping in.
"So Berrie left," she said gently, "because she saw something you never meant for her to see."
I nodded. "Yeah."
She gave it a moment, then asked, "When did you start writing them?"
I leaned back, exhaling through my nose.
My head thumped lightly against the wall.
"I don't even remember the first one. I think I was fifteen.
Sixteen, maybe. Kept writing on and off through everything—sleeping in shelters, couch hopping, all that.
It was how I kept her close, I guess. Last one was about eight months ago. "
"Eight months," she repeated. It wasn't a judgment. Just confirmation. Grounding the facts.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Not exactly ancient history, huh?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Why did you write them?"
I shrugged. "Because it felt awesome," I said, and then grimaced at my own choice of words.
"I mean not awesome like happy. Just... real.
I felt like I was spilling my guts to someone who'd actually seen the worst of me and still sat beside me anyway.
And yeah, it was confusing. Some guilt. A lot of guilt.
Some love, or something like it. Some regret.
It was just..." I paused. "It made sense in my head. "
The office was quiet except for the hum of the small desk fan and the faint creak of my chair when I shifted.
She looked at me over the rim of her glasses, her expression calm and inquisitive.
''Let me ask you something, Arlo,'' she said gently.
''Do you believe it was wrong to write those letters?” She paused, giving the question space.
“Writing can be a way to process emotion, to organize grief and attachment. Often it serves a purpose even when it’s never meant to be shared. "
I shook my head, fast. "No. No, don't—don't say that. Berrie didn't do anything wrong. She didn't go snooping or anything. She just... found them. That's not the same."
"Okay," she said. "Let me put it this way. A lot of people say they'd want superpowers. Flying. Invisibility. Super strength. But you know what always comes up more than you'd expect?"
She paused. Let me look at her. I didn't.
"Mind reading," she answered herself, with a dry little smile. "They think it would solve everything. That it would bring them closer to people. Like, If I just knew what they were thinking, then I wouldn't be so anxious. I wouldn't be so afraid. I could trust them completely."
Her smile faded as fast as it came. "But that's a fantasy."
I shifted in my seat, eyes fixed on the scuffed edge of the table between us.
"Because reading minds?" she went on, softer now.
"It would be a curse. The worst kind. Imagine hearing every intrusive thought someone's ever had.
Every flicker of insecurity or jealousy.
Every buried resentment, every unfiltered opinion, every half-formed judgment they don't even believe in, but that still lives in them anyway, because they're human. "
Her voice stayed gentle, but there was something steel-threaded beneath it. Not anger. Just truth.
"You wouldn't feel closer to people," she said. "You'd feel betrayed. Disgusted. Hurt. You'd forget the difference between a thought and a choice. You'd start mistaking someone's worst internal moment for who they are, instead of what they're working to not be."
My jaw clenched. I still didn't look at her.
"And the worst part?" she said. "You'd start doing it to yourself, too. You'd hear your own ugly thoughts, your own shame, and think: this is me. Not just something I'm feeling, but me."
I swallowed, hard.
She paused, giving me space to take it in. "That's what your letters were. Thoughts. Feelings. Maybe raw, maybe messy but private. Processing isn't always tidy. But it's still yours."
I let out a breath, steady but rough. "They weren't just thoughts. They were letters. Emotional. Intense, and I kept them." My throat tightened. "I should've gotten rid of them."
"That," she said, nodding, "I'll agree with. But we're not here to play the game of 'should have' or 'would have.' We're here to understand the why so you can stop carrying the same guilt forward and start learning the tools to do better next time."
I pressed my palms against my knees, grounding myself.
"But if you never wanted Berrie to read them—why keep them?" She asked.
I gave a dry, humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand down my face. "Because I'm an idiot?"
She tilted her head, smiling gently. "Sure. That's one explanation. But can you think of any that aren't... quite so self-punishing?"
I exhaled through my nose, avoiding her gaze by studying a crack in the baseboard.
"I don't know," I said slowly. "Maybe...
maybe it was hard to throw them away. Maybe I was scared to.
Or maybe I didn't think it was a big deal.
I don't know. I wasn't sitting there plotting emotional sabotage, if that's what you're asking. "
"Maybe," she said. " But also sometimes, we hold onto things because they've shaped us. Even if they hurt. Even when we tell ourselves we've moved on."
I looked up, just barely.
She leaned forward a little. "Those letters, Arlo... they might've been your way of keeping a safe distance from your past. A way to process it without having to stare it directly in the face. You weren't re-reading them every night, right?"
"No," I muttered. "God, no."
"But you knew they were there. Tucked away. Like a shoebox under the bed. Not visible, but not gone either."
I hesitated, uneasy. "So what are you saying? That I wanted Berrie to find them?"
"I'm saying," she replied carefully, "that on some level—maybe one you haven't let yourself look at, you wanted to be seen. Really seen. The version of you that wrote those letters... that kid was grieving. Lost. Surviving however he could."
I frowned, hard. "Why the hell would I want someone to see that? That's not the version of me I'm proud of."
"No," she said, voice gentle. "But it's still part of who you are, and maybe, deep down, letting someone see it, letting Berrie see it, meant finally admitting it's still there. That you're still healing from it. That the past isn't as far behind you as you pretend."
I didn't say anything.
"And maybe," she added, "some part of you believed that if she left because of it, that would just confirm what you've always believed about yourself anyway."
I swallowed hard.
"That I mess everything up," I said quietly.
She didn't correct me. Didn't rush to reassure. Just let the silence fill the space between us, heavy but honest.
Instead, she added, "And maybe, too, you were afraid that letting go of the letters meant letting go of Lyra entirely, and that's terrifying because who are you without the things that broke you and shaped you at the same time?"
I was quiet for a long time. Long enough that she didn't push.
"Lyra was survival," I said finally. "Not just love. She's... tied to everything I was. Every version of me I don't talk about anymore."
"Then maybe," she said, "that's where we start."
I stepped out of the therapist's office with my helmet under one arm and a knot in my throat.
The sky looked too blue for how raw I felt like someone had turned the saturation up just to spite me.
I moved on autopilot, jaw tight, steps heavy.
The session had pulled something loose inside me, like a scab I wasn't ready to peel back yet.
I didn't want to think. I didn't want to talk.
I just wanted the road.
My motorcycle was parked two blocks down, sunlight glinting off the chrome. I threw my leg over, yanked on my helmet, and started the engine. The rumble vibrated through my chest. That, at least, felt like control.
*****
Wounded. Beautiful. It hurt just to look at him.
Leaning against his motorcycle like he belonged in some slow-burning indie film—the kind with too much silence and an ending that stays with you for weeks.
Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair just messy enough to look effortless.
His hands were in his pockets. His eyes weren't focused on anything, just..
. drifting. Like maybe he was somewhere else entirely.
"There he is," I murmured, barely trusting my voice.
March followed my gaze. "Who? Oh—" She let out a soft breath. "Wow. He actually did it."
"Did what?"
"He went," she said, eyes still on him. "To therapy."
I froze. "Therapy?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer. My voice cracked, traitorous and thin.
March nodded slowly. "Yeah. You said you didn't want to know anything about him."
"I don't," I snapped too quickly. Too defensive.
My gaze dropped, and I turned my face away before she could see the rest of it—how my hands were shaking. How my lungs felt too full and too empty all at once. A tear broke free and tracked hot down my cheek. I wiped it fast and tried to pretend it didn't mean anything. God, I miss him so much!
"Let's go," I said, already turning.
But March didn't move. "You can talk to him, Feb. He's right there. I'm not trying to be harsh," she added. "But at some point, you have to stop punishing people for the damage someone else did to you."
My throat felt raw. I can't go there.
"I know," I whispered. "I just... I'm tired, March. I am tired of being a second choice, in family, in love."
"I know you are," she said, softer now. "But maybe tired isn't a reason to run anymore. Maybe it's the reason to try."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't love me, March," I whispered, and the moment the words left my mouth, I wished I could pull them back. But it was too late. They were out in the open now, echoing in the space between us like something sacred and broken. "Not really. Not the way I need to be loved."
March didn't speak. Her face softened. I hated that kindness.
Hated how it made me feel small and seen all at once.
I kept going. Couldn't stop now. "I can't keep doing this.
Living like I'm on borrowed time. Like I'm only here until the ghost of her decides to show up again and take back what was hers. "
"Feb—"
"No, just—listen." My voice shook, but I pushed through it. "It's like... I'm this temporary fix. A stand-in. I'm not the real story. I'm the space between scenes. I'm the pause before the plot picks up again."
"You don't know that," she said gently, too gently, like she was afraid I might fall apart.
But I already had.
I felt it in the way my shoulders slumped, in the ache that settled behind my eyes every time I saw him and remembered that he once wrote love letters to another girl while telling me I was the only one.
"I do know," I said, sharper now. "I know what it feels like to love someone who still belongs to someone else in the back of their mind. Who's still tangled up in old memories, old promises, old pain that doesn't include you. You're just... trying to matter more than a ghost."
March's lips pressed into a line, and for a moment I could tell she wanted to argue. She wanted to tell me I was wrong, that he had changed, that he loved me now. But she didn't. She just looked at me like she was trying to hand me strength through her eyes.
So I said it. The question that had haunted me since the day I found those letters. The one I'd buried under fake smiles and forced distance.
"If Lyra showed up today," I asked quietly, "if she knocked on his door and said she was sorry and wanted to try again... you really think he'd still pick me?"
she didn't answer, but soon, we were going to find out...