Chapter 5
Carter had texted me two days ago.
Carter
I left him on read.
Not because I didn’t want the edit, I did want it, but because I hated that I’d let him in enough for this to be possible.
I’d slipped. Accidentally attached the letter with the final footage.
The one that gave away my deeply kept secret.
And now he thought he had a right to interfere.
Even before that, I had let him in. I had made him think we were friends.
That I was somehow someone he had a right to care about.
He didn’t.
But here I was anyway. Not because I suddenly wanted help.
Or because I’d had a revelation. I was here only because I needed that file.
And I needed my channel to stay online. I had unwillingly come to the realization that the only thing I cared about before dying was making sure all the footage of my attempts stayed up, keeping my memory embalmed forever.
And maybe, just maybe, I was mildly curious what kind of woman signed up to coach people, when I presumed most of her clientele were just crawling through life on bloody knees. How could she enjoy the depressing conversations that I was sure occurred in her office?
The Uber pulled up to the address that Carter had texted me.
It was a clean storefront with a simple sign and a green door.
Inside, the waiting room was too quiet. There was no receptionist. Just a table with a sign that said to wait to be called in, a few houseplants that looked too alive, a curated stack of inspirational self-help books on a white oak shelf, and a tea station that looked like no one had touched it today.
I had barely lowered myself into a soft, fluffy chair when the door in the back opened and a woman stepped out.
“You must be Danny. I’m Iris. Welcome.”
I stood, already regretting being here.
She was younger than I’d expected—late twenties maybe. She wore big glasses, with no detectable makeup on her pale skin, and her hair was pulled up in a loose, practical knot. She wore a cardigan with a scarf twisted around her neck. And sensible boots. They were almost nerdy.
But she was beautiful.
Not the obvious type of beautiful. Not the influencer kind that was splashed all over social media these days with exposed flesh and bright lips.
No, her beauty was the kind that snuck up on you.
It wasn’t flashy in a way that made you notice it all at once.
It was delicate; it forced you to take a second glance.
She had a defined jawline. Long dark lashes.
A full mouth. Lips that showed signs of smiling way too often for my liking.
It was annoying, the way she didn’t seem like the type that spent too much time on the way she looked, yet she looked even better because of it.
I was irritated to have noticed it at all.
I looked away quickly, like that might have helped me unsee it.
“Sure,” I said, stepping past her into the room without waiting for an official invitation.
Her office smelled like lavender and old books. The couch looked soft. I made a point to sit in the chair instead.
On the wall behind her desk was a framed print that said, “You are exactly where you need to be.” The sentiment made me want to toss it out the window so I wouldn’t have to look at it again.
Everything from the throw blankets to the reed diffusers looked like it had been curated to say ‘calm’ without using words.
I hated it. Not because it was offensive but because it was sincere.
“You don’t want to be here,” she said as she sat down across from me. I got a faint whiff of her perfume as she passed. It was floral and woodsy, and I turned away from it as if it was bothering me. It wasn’t.
“Gold star for noticing,” I muttered, feeling the resentment of Carter forcing me to be here begin to bubble to the surface. “Guess you earned your degrees.”
She smiled. Not tight, not fake. She just… smiled, even though my attitude was awful. Like she’d expected the jab from me.
“I did, actually,” she said. “Several of them.”
She opened a notebook but didn’t write anything in it yet.
“ICF-certified. Co-Active Coaching through CTI. Trauma-informed training, even though I’m not a therapist. My undergrad was in behavioral psych. I specialize in working with people who aren’t sure what their purpose is here.”
My eyes narrowed. “Here as in… Earth?”
“Here as in this room.” She cocked her head. “But Earth works too.”
I huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if I still had any of those left in me.
She didn’t ask me anything right away, so we just sat there. Me silent and irritated, her with her ankles crossed and a faint smile splayed across her lips.
“I’m not interested in fixing myself,” I finally said, growing uncomfortable.
“Good,” she said approvingly. “I don’t fix people.”
“Carter thinks I need to be saved,” I continued, voice low. “You should know that up front. He’s on some savior kick.”
“And you?”
I leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
“I’m just here, waiting to collect a video file.”
Her silence stretched again. Not uncomfortable this time—just still. Curious. Non-judgmental.
“I don’t want to be helped,” I added as if that wasn’t already clear. “I don’t want to be changed. I don’t want to journal or set goals or talk about my feelings.”
“I’m not here to make you do any of that,” she said.
I glanced over. “Then what are you here for?”
“To help you ask better questions than the ones you’ve already been asking yourself.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t like that answer.
“Fine,” I said. “You want a question?”
She nodded. I let the silence crawl around her for a moment just like she had done to me.
“Why is it that people who want to die have to be talked out of it… but people who want to live don’t have to justify that?”
Iris blinked. I worried that maybe my question hadn’t made sense.
“Do you want to die?” she finally inquired.
I didn’t answer her question; instead, I just kept talking.
“You get in a car and tell someone you want to drive across the country, they wish you luck,” I said.
“You tell them you want to get on a rocket to Mars; they call you a visionary. But you say—I think I’m done here—and suddenly everyone needs to hold an intervention. ”
Her eyes didn’t waver. “You feel like you’ve done your time?”
“I feel like I’ve seen enough. Gone through enough.”
There was a pause as we both processed what I had just said.
“Or maybe,” I added, “I’m just sick of existing this way with nothing that can be done to change it.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “And yet… you’re here.”
I looked away. I was, but I had also lost count of the nights where I’d woken up sweating, thinking I was twelve again.
I’d spent three decades trying to be okay, and I was tired of it.
Not the kind of tired that a nap or a life coach session could fix.
The kind of exhaustion that sank into your marrow and stayed there.
She didn’t fill the space of my silence. She just let it hang until I was ready to speak again.
“Maybe because I had no choice,” I said finally. “Maybe because Carter forced me. Maybe because I need that damn edit.”
“Or maybe,” she coaxed gently, “you’re here because some part of you wants someone to witness the ending.”
That one got me. I sat up straighter, jaw tight.
“You’re not going to be the one to save me,” I reminded her again, firmly.
“Then it’s a good thing that’s not my job,” she replied perfunctorily.
The timer on her phone went off. A soft chime. Releasing me from the torture. She reached over to silence it.
I stood. She stood, too.
“See you next week?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”
I turned to leave but paused by the door.
“Seriously though… why do people have to be forced to stay alive?” I asked quietly, not looking back. “Why is choosing not to live the worst thing a person can do?”
She didn’t answer right away. When I glanced back, she looked like she was deep in thought. Not dramatically. Just enough to make me smirk. It made me feel like I’d somehow won this session.
“We’re out of time, Miss…”
“Marlowe,” she said, recovering quickly. “Iris Marlowe.”
“Right.” I tugged open the door. “Well, Miss Marlowe. Seems we’ll have to unpack that next session.”
And with that, I walked out—already unsure whether I wanted to or not.