Her Name In Lights
The waiting room is too quiet.
Or maybe I am.
My heel bounces against the leg of the chair as I stare at the abstract painting on the wall like it might answer the question I’m too ashamed to say out loud.
Couples therapy had been going well. Slowly but surely Calil and I were finding our lovers rhythm. Funny enough we were most comfortable at Lena’s place. When my lease was up at my placed I moved in. Calil was preparing to rent his house out because he was with me more than he was home.
It was through couples therapy that I realized I needed somewhere to put my own fear without filtering it through Calil’s grief.
Dr. Manning’s door opens.
“Zaria,” Her voice is warm and kind like always.
I stand while smoothing invisible wrinkles from my jeans and follow her inside. I sit on the same couch Calil and I share during joint sessions. It feels different without him beside me.
“How are you?” she asks gently.
I laugh softly. “That’s a loaded question.”
“Good,” she replies. “Let’s unpack it.”
I stare at my hands for a moment before speaking.
“I haven’t had sex with Calil since Lena died.”
She doesn’t react dramatically. Just nods slightly. “Tell me why.”
The answer sits heavy in my chest. “Because it finalizes it.”
“What does ‘it’ mean?” she asks.
“Lena being gone.” Saying her name still tightens something in me.
“If we cross that line,” I continue quietly, “if it’s just me and him… then it’s real. There’s no buffer. No shared space.”
Dr. Manning leans forward slightly. “And what does that make you feel?”
“Like I’m betraying her.”
Silence.
I swallow hard. “And the crazy part?” I add, my voice dropping lower. “I’m so horny my ears about to pop off.”
The honesty surprises even me. Dr. Manning smiles gently. She chuckles slightly. “That means there’s desire?”
“Oh, there’s desire,” I mutter. “That man breathes and I feel it.”
“And when he initiates?”
“I clam up.”
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally?”
“Yes.”
I sigh. “He’s always understanding. Always patient. But every time I shut down, I can see him trying not to take it personally.”
Dr. Manning nods. “What story are you telling yourself in those moments?”
“That if we’re physical without Lena, it means we’ve moved on.”
“And what does ‘moved on’ mean to you?”
“That she’s… less.,” the word cracks in my throat.
Dr. Manning sits back. “Is your love for Lena reduced by loving Calil?”
“No.”
“Is Calil’s love for Lena reduced by loving you?”
“No.”
“Then why does intimacy equal erasure?”
I don’t have an immediate answer other than that’s what it feels like.
“Grief often attaches itself to ritual,” she says softly. “Your body has associated intimacy with the three of you. Removing one person feels like breaking the ritual.”
That makes sense.
“And there’s something else,” she adds.
I look up.
“You’re afraid the relationship will fail if you initiate sex.”
Bingo. She’s clocked everything I’ve been feeling.
“Yes.”
“If we don’t have sex,” I admit, “I can pretend we’re still paused. Still figuring it out. But if we try and it’s awkward or heavy or wrong… then what?”
“Then you learn,” she says calmly.
I shake my head. “It feels fragile.”
“It is fragile,” she agrees. “But avoiding intimacy doesn’t protect the relationship. It slowly starves it.”
She clocks my fears yet again.
“I don’t want it to die before it really begins,” I whisper.
“Then you need to separate grief from guilt,” she replies.
I breathe slowly before asking, “How?”
“Start by naming what you actually want.”
I hesitate but finally say it plainly. “I want him.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“All of him. I want to feel close to him. I need to be desired. I have to stop flinching every time I’m happy.”
There it is. My raw truth.
“And what would it mean,” she asks carefully, “to see intimacy not as a betrayal… but as a continuation of the love Lena wanted for you?”
My heart feels like it’s palpitating. “She told us not to let her death be in vain,” I whisper.
“And do you believe she meant that sexually too?”
I almost laugh through tears. “Probably.”
Dr. Manning smiles faintly.
“Your body isn’t betraying Lena,” she says gently. “It’s trying to feel alive.”
I sit with the fact that I’ve been doing the opposite of what I promised Lena.
“When you clam up,” she continues, “what if instead of shutting down completely, you slow it down? Tell him you’re scared. Let him hold you. Let the first moment back be about closeness, not performance.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t want to lose him,” I admit.
“Then don’t punish him for surviving with you.”
I exhale long and shaky. “I think I’ve been waiting for permission.”
“From who?”
I swallow. “From Lena.”
Dr. Manning holds my gaze.
“You already have it.” The idea of touching the man who holds my heart doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a scary step forward filled with tenderness.
Dr. Manning lets the silence settle before speaking again.
“Is there anything else weighing on you?” she asks gently.
I almost say no. But my phone buzzed three times this week. From a number I haven’t blocked but should have.
My jaw tightens. “
My family’s been reaching out.”
Her expression softens slightly. “How does that feel?”
“Like a trap,” I answer immediately.
She tilts her head. “Explain.”
“They keep texting,” I say. “Calling. Leaving voicemails.”
“And?”
“They deadname me every single time,” The word spill bitter from my mouth.
“If they’re still looking for Zaire,” I said with a steady tone filled with tension, “then there’s no reason for me to respond. That person doesn’t exist anymore.”
Dr. Manning nods slowly.
“I assume every message feels like erasure?”
“Yes.”
“Do they acknowledge you at all? Or only the name they want?”
“Only the name they want.”
I laugh quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s wild how somebody can say they miss you while refusing to see you.”
Dr. Manning allows me to finish my thought before asking, “What do you think they want?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Closure? Access? To feel less guilty? Or maybe they just finally ran out of pride.”
“And what do you want?”
That’s the harder question. “I don’t know,” I admit.
She watches me carefully. “Do you really want to know what they want?” she asks gently. “Or do you truly want to be left alone?”
I stare at the floor. I’ve built a whole life without them. A chosen family. A woman who loved me openly. A man who loves me without shame.
“I want peace,” I whisper.
“Peace can come in two forms,” she says. “Distance… or clarity.”
I swallow. “I’m scared if I answer, they’ll disappoint me again.”
“That’s a real possibility,” she says calmly.
“And I don’t think I can handle another rejection.”
Dr. Manning leans forward slightly. “What would answering them cost you?”
“Hope.”
“And what would ignoring them cost you?”
I pause.
“Curiosity,” I admit.
Silence stretches.
“You’re allowed to set conditions,” she says. “You don’t have to accept deadnaming. You don’t have to accept disrespect.”
“So what,” I mutter. “I text back and say, ‘Try again?’”
“If you choose to respond,” she says gently, “you can make it clear that you will only engage as Zaria. Not Zaire. Not the ghost of who they want.”
I breathe slowly. “And if they don’t respect that?”
“Then you have your answer.”
I nod. I’ve been avoiding the conversation because part of me still hopes they’ll magically show up correctly. Fully affirming. Fully apologetic. But the messages don’t suggest that.
“They didn’t come to my graduation,” I say quietly.
Dr. Manning nods. “But they’re calling now.”
“Yes.”
“And that stirs something.”
“I don’t know if I want them back in my life,” I whisper. “But I also don’t know if I want to carry this unfinished business forever.”
She smiles faintly. “Those feelings are natural. Wanting the people who hurt you to own their inflicted pain is not wrong.”
I look up at her.
“Whatever you choose,” she says, “make sure it’s about protecting your peace and not punishing your pain.”
I sit back slowly. I’ve been telling myself for years I didn’t them and maybe I don’t.
But I do need them to know that if they come back into my life, it will be on Zaria’s terms. Not as someone they’re still mourning.
This version of Zaria is strong enough to enforce this boundary especially knowing I have Calil next to me.
It’s been three days since therapy. Three days since I promised myself I wouldn’t keep fighting alone.
Three days of almost telling Calil about my family.
The gala is tonight. Winston Hills Memorial Hospital is hosting it in Lena’s honor.
Her name printed in gold script across the program. Her picture framed near the entrance.
My nerves are doing gymnastics as I stand in Lena’s old bedroom watching Calil get dressed. He doesn’t know I’m staring. He’s standing in nothing but black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, rubbing amber body butter slowly over his shoulders and chest. The scent fills the room—warm, rich, faintly sweet.
His skin glows under the soft lamp light. The muscles in his back shift as his hands glide over his torso. His waves are freshly brushed, catching the light every time he tilts his head.
He looks like both sin and salvation wrapped in six feet plus of sex appeal. Obviously, the scales are tipped more toward him being my salvation. My body reacts instantly and I cross the room without thinking. Step behind him. Press my chest to his back—feeling the heat radiate off his back.
“Can I help?” I whisper against his shoulder.
His body shivers. A slow exhale leaves him as my lips brush just beneath his ear.
“Yes,” he says with the deep timber in his voice that drives me wild.
No hesitation. I slide my hands over his shoulders while taking the jar from his hand. I let my palms move slowly across his chest. Over his sternum. Down the ridges of his abdomen.
He closes his eyes.
“You trying to make me late?” he murmurs.
“I miss your touch,” he hums.