Chapter 33
Millie
My fingers hover over my sketchbook.
The urge to create has been building for months, but since I met Creed, it’s become relentless. Life feels sharper now. Louder, brighter, and harder to ignore.
He brings out my sense of self, and fighting it grows more exhausting every day. I don’t know what I’m protecting myself from anymore. I don’t know if I want the parts I’ve hidden to be brought into the light and accepted or buried deeper.
This overwhelming confusion and feeling of being torn in two is why I’m staring at a blank page while clutching my phone.
I haven’t spoken to my psychiatrist since he released me from his care. I felt fine at the start of the summer, but now I don’t and he’s the only person who might help me make sense of what’s happening inside my head.
Dialing feels like a setback... then again, nothing feels like a step forward anymore, so I press the phone to my ear.
Dr. Quinn answers on the second ring, his soothing voice like a balm over my frayed nerves.
“Hello, Millie, how are you doing?”
“Awful,” I admit, my voice breaking. “Can we talk? Do you have time?”
“Yes, of course. What’s going on?”
I get more comfortable on my bed, back to the wall, knees tucked under my chin. Abby’s out with her now boyfriend, Thomas, so I’m not expecting any interruptions.
And what a blessing, given I talk Dr. Quinn’s ear off for almost twenty minutes. I tell him about Gravemont. I tell him about Hyde and his friends. I even go into explicit detail about Creed, me, and Noah.
He doesn’t interrupt, but I hear his pen scribbling.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I finally finish.
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. I find comfort in that. I picture his kind, piercing gray eyes and that soothing softness of his face.
“When you were humiliated, the cost of being expressive felt dangerous, so you adapted,” he explains. “You reduced your expression and that strategy worked, but now you’re somewhere safer, that same strategy is outdated.”
My fingers curl around my phone, his words making sense and no sense at all. “I don’t feel safer.”
“That’s because your mind and body are out of sync. You’re trying to manage other people’s reactions by shrinking all the while outgrowing your own defenses.”
Pinching my lips, I try not to burst into tears. “I don’t understand. I don’t know who I am anymore. It feels like no matter what I do, I’m sabotaging myself.”
“You’re not sabotaging yourself,” he says gently. “You’re anticipating danger where there is none. That’s why it feels like you’re being torn apart. You’re in recovery, Millie. You’re healing, but you can’t just flip a switch. It takes time.”
A lone tear slips down my cheek and I sniffle, wiping my eyes with angry strokes. “So what do I do now? Who am I supposed to be when it feels like every version of me is wrong?”
“You were publicly shamed for existing. Shame doesn’t just hurt, Millie, it rearranges identity.”
I press the phone harder to my ear, hanging onto every word he speaks, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweater.
“You don’t have to be the old version of you,” he adds. “And you don’t have to stay the quiet version either. You’re allowed to become something else. Experiment. Try old pieces of yourself back on and see if they fit. Try new ones, too.”
“I don’t know what to try,” I whisper. “What will make me enough? Not too much or too little, just enough...”
“Enough for who?” Dr. Quinn asks. “Creed?”
I don’t answer and he doesn’t push.
“You’re adjusting yourself to fit other people’s expectations. That’s exhausting and won’t work long-term.” He pauses, his pen tapping against wood. “Let’s try this,” he says. “Stop asking if you’re too much and start asking if you can tolerate being seen.”
I mull the words over, silence stretching between us for the longest time. He doesn’t mind, sitting with me while my head replays his words.
“Okay,” I whisper, then sit up straighter and say it louder. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“Good. I’m here if you need to talk, Millie.”
“Thank you.”
We say goodbye, the line goes dead, and as I drop my phone, I realize that even though nothing’s changed, the room feels calmer. My eyes land on the open sketchbook, no pencil in sight.
Try old pieces of yourself back on and see if they fit.
Sketching, painting, being creative is an old piece that’s been calling me back loudest. Inhaling a deep breath, I reach into my drawer, fingers closing around a pencil. I don’t feel brave, my heart’s thundering in my chest, but I draw the first line.
There’s no one here. No one’s watching or judging, and there’s no harm in trying something I’ve missed so badly.
Lines turn into shapes and I pull the sketchbook into my lap, my wrist moving, graphite scratching against paper. Muscle memory takes over, my breath steadies, and my mind switches off, sucking me into the creative zone.
And when I’m done, there’s a girl who looks like me breaking through the paper, hands gripping the torn edges. Her eyes are uncertain, but her lips are set in quiet determination.
My phone pings, stealing my focus. I smile when Eli pops up on the screen. It’s been three days since Dash’s game night.
I went up to his room again the next morning and we ended up fucking in his shower, then kissing behind the cafeteria at lunch, and again in the elevator that afternoon.
Eli: Come kiss me.
I smile wider. My brother stopped by earlier, asking if I wanted any snacks or groceries. He and Dash went to Blackwood Point to stock up on beer, so I won’t have to worry about getting caught sneaking around with his best friend.
We haven’t agreed to keep it quiet, but it’s been one stolen moment, then another, and another. Creed doesn’t push to change it and it should probably bother me more.
Maybe it does, just a little, but I’m not pushing either. I’m not ready for the spotlight, labels, or my brother’s reaction. I don’t know if Creed wants me, or just the thrill of stolen moments.
And if this falls apart soon, I don’t want it echoing through his friendship with Hyde, so for now, we’re kissing in dark corners and fucking in them, too.
I shake my head before I spiral and start wondering if I’m too much or too little and how much is enough.
Stop asking if you’re too much and start asking if you can tolerate being seen.
I don’t know...