Cassius #3
I huff out a breath. “Everything.”
“Can you be more specific?” he prods gently.
I stare at the carpet between my shoes. “Angry at her mom. At the world. At anyone who ever made her feel like she isn’t enough. I was even mad at myself for not noticing she was slipping. I was right there. I’ve known her forever, and I still missed it.”
He nods, absorbing that. “What else?”
“Scared,” I admit, voice lower now. “Scared I’m going to screw this up. That I’m going to lose my temper during one of her bad days and say something I can’t take back. Scared that loving her is going to hurt her more than help because my anger’s already a lot to manage on a good day.”
“And for you?” he asks. “What are you afraid loving her will do to you?”
The question surprises me enough to look up. “I’m not worried about me.”
His brows lift slightly. “Try again, Cass.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is, I am worried. Just not in a way I’ve let myself think about.
I drag a hand over my face as I let it sink in.
“I don’t want to start resenting it. The episodes.
The extra care. The canceling plans when she can’t get out of bed.
I don’t want there to be a version of me five years from now who’s tired and bitter and keeping score.
I did this for you, I carried that, you owe me.
That guy sounds like my dad and I don’t want to be him. ”
Dr. Malik’s expression softens into something warm and understanding. “That’s good insight. You’re thinking ahead instead of pretending love is some magic shield against burnout. It isn’t.”
“Feels fucked up to admit it,” I mutter.
“It’s honest,” he counters.
“So what do I do? How do I be there for her, really there, without making her my full-time fix-it project—or checking out emotionally to protect myself?”
He leans back, folding his hands in his lap. “First, you accept that you are not responsible for her illness. You didn’t cause it. You can’t cure it. You can make it easier to carry, but you can’t carry it for her.”
I nod slowly, letting that sink past the guilt layered in my chest.
“Second,” he continues, “you let go of the idea that you have to be perfectly regulated and enlightened every time she struggles. You’re human.
You’ll get frustrated. You’ll be tired. You’ll have days when you’re not your best self.
That doesn’t make you a monster. It means you manage your reactions.
If you feel your anger spiking, you take a breath, you step out, you say, ‘I love you, but I need ten minutes to calm down so I don’t say something I regret. ’”
My mouth twists. “Feels selfish.”
“It’s protective,” he corrects. “Of both of you. The work you’ve done on your anger isn’t just about you not punching walls. It’s about you being safe for the people you love. That includes her.”
I stare at a spot on the far wall, turning that over.
“Third,” he says, “you communicate. When she’s having a better day, you sit down and say, ‘Hey, when your depression gets bad, how can I help? What actually feels good and what feels suffocating?’ You make a plan together.”
I nod, listening and trying to memorize all this with a sleep-deprived brain.
“Lastly, you keep coming here,” he says simply. “To group. To one-on-ones. You use this space to unload the anger, fear, and frustration, so you don’t lay it at her feet. You get support so you’re not her only lifeline.”
Something in my chest unclenches at the realization that it’s more than just Riley I can talk to.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “the way you’re talking about her—your concern, your awareness of your own patterns—tells me you’re already doing a lot correctly.
You showed up last night when she was in distress.
You didn’t minimize her experience, and you stayed by her side.
You’re here now, asking how not to hurt her. That matters, Cass.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly and I blink hard, staring at the stupid fake plant so I don’t start crying over some reasonable praise.
“Doesn’t feel like enough,” I mutter, because I would do anything and everything for Zae.
“It won’t,” he confirms, to my disappointment. “That’s part of loving someone who struggles. It often feels like you’re bringing a cup of water to a house fire. But to the person who’s burning, that cup can mean everything.”
I picture Zae’s face when I told her she wasn’t selfish. The way her shoulders shook. The way she clung to me like I was something good.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “So… plan?”
He nods. “Plan. I’d like to see you individually every other week for a while, if you’re willing.
We’ll keep group as is. You’ll talk to her about what she needs from you and what you need from her.
We’ll practice language you can use when you feel your anger ramping up on a day when she’s low.
And we’ll keep an eye on your own exhaustion. Sound fair?”
“Yeah.” I nod, oddly hopeful. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“It’s not going to be smooth,” he warns. “There will be weeks when you feel you’re doing everything wrong. When you say something and see it taken badly, even though you meant well, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you apologize, adjust, and keep going.”
I let that sit for a beat, then nod.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Always.”
“How do I make sure she knows she’s not too much?” I ask, words coming out faster now. “She keeps saying that. Or thinking it. That she’s a lot. That she’s too loud or too sad or too whatever. I tell her she’s wrong, but it feels small compared to everything she’s carrying.”
He studies me for a moment. “You show her consistent care through the little things. Like checking in without making a thing of it. Remembering what she told you on good days and reflecting it back on bad ones. Being honest when you’re struggling, too, so she sees you as a partner, not a babysitter. ”
A humorless huff escapes me. “She’d murder me if she thought I saw myself as her babysitter.”
“Good. She shouldn’t feel like a project. She should feel like a person you love who has a condition you’re both learning to manage.”
I roll that phrase around in my brain.
We’re both learning.
It feels doable. Hard, but doable.
“Okay,” I say again, firmer this time. “I can work with that.”
We hash out logistics—appointment slots, some breathing exercises he wants me to try when my temper spikes during her low days. He makes me say out loud that I’ll call if I feel myself slipping into old patterns.
By the time I’m out of there, the sun’s higher and campus is buzzing. I step outside and squint into the light. Everything feels too bright after the dim basement room and the even dimmer dorm last night.
My phone buzzes.
Riley:
Sleeping. Ate the cereal I shoved at her. U owe me
Despite everything, a smile tugs at my mouth.
Cass:
I’ll buy you snacks for a week. No kale shit. Actual snacks
Riley:
Skittles or I riot
Cass:
Deal
I stop at the campus café and grab a coffee for myself, a hot chocolate for Zae, and one of those giant blueberry muffins she pretends not to like and always devours anyway.
On my way out, I catch my reflection in the glass.
I look like shit, so obviously lacking sleep. But there’s something steadier in my eyes than there was at two in the morning. I’ve got notes in my phone and a plan that’s not just love her harder and hope that’s enough.
Will I still fuck up? Probably. Will there be days when I’m annoyed and she’s numb and everything feels heavier than it should? Yeah.
But I’m not going anywhere.
I head toward her dorm, the muffin warm in its bag, the hot chocolate searing my fingers through the cup.
My chest tightens in that now-familiar way when I swipe my ID and take the stairs two at a time.
When I reach her door, I pause for half a second, hand on the knob, just breathing. Then I go in.
Whatever today is—good, bad, somewhere in between—we’ll figure it out.
Together.