Chapter 49
Forty-Nine
The clock seems to tick louder in this room than in any other. Today, though, I don’t mind it; I’m still high on whispered I love you’s and the aftertaste of his nearness.
“That’s a nice T-shirt you’ve got on.”
“Thanks.” It’s nothing special, just a simple tee I picked up on the way over. The simple cursive on the front just drew me right in.
I have an infinite number of reasons to be happy.
It‘s strange how, when I read it, I felt it.
There’s so many buzzwords scattering through me like sparks. Polaris. Magic. You’re it for me.
I wonder if Dr. Gazelle notices it, how I’m lit aglow from within. She’s witnessed me broken, grieving, fragile. But she hasn’t seen this side of me. Not until now.
“So,” she begins, one leg crossing over the other, “what did you dream of last night?”
I curl into the sofa. “It was different. Not the usual kind.”
“How so?”
“It wasn’t a memory.” I close my eyes, reaching back for it.
“Bryce was there. On the beach. It was sunrise and she looked… golden.” The light seemed to pour through her, like she’d been made of the morning itself.
“She didn’t speak. She just turned back and smiled.
And all day it feels like there was more, but I can’t remember what. ”
Dr. Gazelle tilts her head. “Maybe it wasn’t about what she said, but what she gave you by being there. Could her smile have been a kind of permission? Or release?”
“Permission?”
Her gaze flicks briefly to the print on my shirt. “To be okay again,” she elaborates. “To feel good.”
I blink. I haven’t thought of it like that. I’ve been so focused on what piece of the dream might’ve slipped away in the fog of waking that I never stopped to notice what I actually brought with me into consciousness.
“Tell me, Brielle. Do you ever notice yourself feeling guilty when you’re happy?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do. “Sometimes,” I admit at last. “How could I not?”
“Why?”
My lips part, then press shut.
The AC hums in the background, low enough I wonder if it’s done deliberately to underline the silence.
“Could it be,” she asks, “that staying broken feels like devotion? That grief itself has become your proof of love?”
The tightness in my chest swells. Not like in the pool, where nerves tangled with anticipation. This is different. A rooted knot that won’t give.
“I guess… yeah.”
“Can I ask something else?”
I should say no. Her voice has lowered an octave, uncharacteristically gentle, and that alone rings warning bells.
So why do I nod?
“How was the funeral?”
I stand. I can’t help it, it’s a knee-jerk reaction to a question that drags a memory so cold. A chill creeps up my spine and I have to start pacing just to detract from it.
“Brielle?” Dr. Gazelle’s calm reaches me, grounding. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”
I rub my thumb over the letters of her name. Exhale, shaky, like it’ll smear the moment.
No. I won’t dodge this. I made a promise at her grave.
“I didn’t cry.” Even though I’m standing here, I’m back there. “It rained the night before. Everything smelled like wet earth and mud, and the air was so heavy I swear it pressed against my lungs.” Somber doesn’t begin to cover it. “I didn’t cry. Not once.”
It was my first funeral. I didn’t know the etiquette, the steps to follow. I still don’t. The whole thing is a fog—the service, my dad stepping up to speak because I couldn’t. I can’t recall a word of it.
But I do remember…
“Her casket. It was pale wood, and the handles were silver. I remember how low it went. Too low. And the first spill of soil. I remember that, because I did it.” That awful, final sound. “But more than anything, I remember the eyes. Every single one, waiting for me to break.”
I shake my head, pacing slower now. I can still see it, how I was—
“Outside of my body. That’s how I felt. Watching myself in that ridiculous black dress, rooted at the edge of her casket.
I remember reaching into my clutch for tissues, but finding my camera instead.
And it’s still so clear, me lifting it and capturing the casket like evidence.
Depersonalisation. I searched it up later. ”
I swallow. “The only time there were cracks were when people would lean in, and say that same line. She’s in a better place now. I remember…” Dry eyes, stone-face, but inside, inside I’d burn. “I remember wanting so badly to scream what about me. What place am I in?”
“Have you ever said that out loud before?”
“No.”
She waits.
“It’s selfish.”
“It’s not selfish. You’re allowed to grieve the shape of the absence someone leaves.” She pauses. “Even if that absence lives inside you. Where do you feel like you are now? What place?”
I stop by the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden shadows across the floor. Outside, leaves flicker in the breeze.
“I feel… I feel like I’ve stumbled into a place I thought was gone for good.
For so long I was faking it, pretending to be somewhere I thought I’d never see again.
But now… now it doesn’t feel impossible.
Still distant, yes, but reachable. Like I’ve finally got a chance at crossing over. Like I can breathe clear again.”
“Why do you think that is?”
The answer wells up fast and undeniable.
Higher than any high has ever taken me.
It’s been less than twelve hours since one truth broke loose—and here comes another.
“I basically told him I love him.”
A bird chirps outside, almost blotting the confession.
“Who?” she asks, but she already knows. I see it in her face.
“Carson.”
As always, she gives nothing away. “And how do you feel about that?”
Scared. Nervous.
Excited.
“A lot of things. It feels like a big step. But… I’m hopeful. In a way I haven’t been in years. Maybe ever, actually.”
Her gaze drops again to my shirt. “This was recent?”
“Yes. Last night.” The words feel like sparks on my tongue, impossible to hold back. “He told me he loves me.”
Me.
It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t half-hearted. It was raw, uncontained, and I felt it everywhere in me, like it had been caged too long and finally broke free.
He wants this. He wants this so badly, maybe even more than I do.
“That’s good, Brielle. I can see you’re very happy. What now?”
What now? My hand trails the bookshelf, fingertips brushing worn spines, cracked corners, glossy covers. Old, new, loved.
“I haven’t seen him since. Hannah’s sick, so he stayed the night with her.” I pause, and a smile tugs faint. Too faint to hold all that I feel. “But right before he left, he said, you and me, right?”
It still echoes, radiating inside me.
Click. Her pen. “Brielle,” she starts, serious, “I want you to be honest. How much of your joy right now depends on him?”
I still. My hand slackens against the shelf. “What?” How much depends on him…? “What do you mean?”
“Think about it.”
My hand lingers on the shelf a moment longer before dropping limp to my side. “Think about what? I don’t understand. Is this not good? I’m happy. I thought that’s what healing was.”
“You are healing, Brielle. I can see that.” Her voice gentles; her eyes don’t. “But I think you’re afraid to stand without Carson.”
The observation hits like arrows and I flinch. “That’s not fair.” It’s not. Carson isn’t the one in this room three times a week. He isn’t the one haunted every night in dreams.
“I’m not saying you’re doing any of it wrong. I’m just asking if he could be the patch.”
“The patch?”
“You said you didn’t feel real at Bryce’s funeral.
Like you were outside your body. Depersonalisation, as you called it.
That’s a trauma response. From everything you’ve told me about Carson, he gives you weight.
Warmth. But Brielle…” I brace myself. “If you’re only grounded when he’s near, then you’re not grounded in yourself. ”
My stomach coils. Sinks. “How do I know? How do I know if I’m grounded in myself?”
“That’s the problem, Brielle. Right now, you can’t.” A sigh escapes. “Not once have you spoken about your parents in these sessions. Have you seen them lately?”
No. Not since that day I went to Bryce’s grave.
“I told them I needed space.”
“And your friends?”
I frown. Aspen and the guys? “I always talk about them.”
“No. I don’t mean yours and Carson’s friends. I mean your friends. From back home.”
I shake my head. “Those were Bryce’s friends.”
“You’ve told me stories,” she reminds me. “They were your friends too. But you pushed them away.” She doesn’t stop there. “And the camera. At the funeral. That was the last time you took a photo in weeks, wasn’t it?”
I nod.
“But when you’ve spoke about wanting to take pictures again, it’s always tied to Carson.”
“What are you saying?” Her gaze holds mine, unblinking. “Are you saying… Are you saying I shouldn’t be with him?”
“I’m not saying that.” She sets her pen on the armrest, but her eyes never leave mine. “I’m just asking: who are you? Who is Brielle Jameson without the safety of someone else’s arms holding her up?”