Chapter 11
Ihated how quiet it was in her office. The silence pressed against my ears like a cotton wrap.
Not heavy, not oppressive, just too quiet.
My whole life I’d learned to brace for quiet because it had never meant something safe was coming my way.
It meant everyone else in the house was gone and he was ready.
Every time I walked in, I felt like I was stepping into some sort of alternate reality where people gave a shit, and the walls hadn’t been scuffed by rage or time.
Everything was soft and muted. The bookshelf wasn’t just full, it was curated with titles I’d never heard of, journals with leafy patterns, and a goddamn candle that smelled like vanilla and optimism.
It pissed me off. But I kept showing up.
I told myself it was because I wanted that footage from my last attempt posted.
Carter said he would stop toying with me and would post it after today’s session.
But he was still holding the threat of deleting my entire channel over my head if I didn’t complete every session.
So, he knew I’d sit through sixteen more of these bullshit appointments to keep my account safe.
Iris was sitting in her chair as usual when I walked in, her legs crossed, her notebook resting lightly in her lap like she was born for this shit.
She looked up with that same unreadable expression, all calm and open and interested.
Her hair was pulled back again today; a few dark curls escaped like they always did and brushed her jawline.
She wasn’t wearing her glasses today. That shouldn’t have mattered; it didn’t, but of course my brain noticed.
I wished it would stop, but it kept cataloging things like the angle of her jaw and the faint mark on her cheek from where she had rested it against her hand as she concentrated on something.
“Hey, Danny,” she said. “How’s your day going?”
“Objectively or existentially?”
Her lips twitched. “Let’s start with objectively.”
“Well against my better judgement I’m here.”
“You are.” She scribbled in her notebook. Probably something like: Patient remains a sarcastic little shit.
I dropped into the chair across from her and sprawled out like I owned the place, like I didn’t care. That was the performance, anyway.
“You know,” I said, “this whole setting is a little deceptive. I keep waiting for a camera crew to pop out and tell me I’m in a documentary that you’re making.”
“No cameras,” she said. “Just me. Although your paranoia is duly noted.”
I snorted. “Paranoia is just pattern recognition.” I looked up at the ceiling.
In my peripheral, she nodded slowly, like she was actually considering it. “Interesting perspective.”
“I just think it’s funny,” I said suddenly, still staring up at the ceiling. “How people don’t care about you until you want to off yourself. And then when they’ve fixed you, and you don’t want to off yourself anymore suddenly, they don’t care again.”
“That sounds like something that frustrates you.”
“No shit.” I glanced at her. “You know, if I had to guess, I’d bet half the people on this planet are miserable and pretending they’re not, and the other half are trying to sell something to numb the misery.”
“What happened to you, Danny?”
I scoffed and looked at her. “Weird how fast this turned into almost feeling like therapy.”
“It’s a fair question.”
“What happened to me made me the kind of person who doesn’t belong anywhere. I didn’t grow up safe. I didn’t grow up wanted. I’m not built for this world, and it’s not built for me. Yet, I’m being forced to participate. Against my will.”
We sat with that for a bit. The weight of it. The honesty of it.
“You ever think about what comes after this?” she asked. “The after life?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Usually when I’m daring the next moment to kill me.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it’s nothing. I hope it’s not worse than this.”
“That’s bleak.”
“Reality tends to be.”
“But you keep searching. You keep testing the edges. That says something.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you think it says?”
“That part of you might still be hoping it’s not all bad.”
I let out a breath. “Or maybe I’m just stubborn. Or bored.”
She smiled softly but didn’t push further. I shifted in my seat, suddenly needing to knock her off her axis. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why do you do this? Sit here with broken people, trying to duct tape them back together.”
“I don’t see people as broken,” she replied. “And I do this because… helping people find direction, makes me feel like I’m putting something good into the world.”
“Sounds noble.”
“It’s not about being noble. It’s just about doing what is right.”
I tilted my head. “Who gets to decide what is right?”
There was a beat—one of those tiny pauses where someone decides whether or not they’re going to lie.
“My dad’s a reverend,” she said finally. “I try to emulate his teachings as my moral compass.”
I raised a brow. “A reverend’s daughter?”
“Mhm.”
“Explains the modest skirts and the Superman complex with a need to save the world.”
She gave me a look, amused but unfazed. “It also explains why I understand the difference between faith and fear.”
I leaned forward. “So, what? You’re one of those no-sex-before-marriage types?”
She didn’t flinch. “I was raised that way, yes.”
“But you still live by it.”
“I choose to, yes.”
“That’s convenient framing.” I sat back. “You ever consider that your whole abstinence thing is just your own trauma response dressed up as virtue?”
Her eyes met mine. Still calm. Still open.
But her faster-than-normal blink gave her away.
I had finally rattled her. My dark obsession with death couldn’t do it, but my mention of sex did.
Noted. It shouldn’t have affected me, but it did.
That tiny flip-flop in my stomach as the power dynamic shifted slightly between us. It scared me more than it excited me.
“Maybe,” she admitted. That surprised me. I’d expected her to push back, to defend it.
“But,” she continued, “I’ve done the work to understand where my choices come from. Can you say the same?”
I barked out a laugh. “Touché.”
Silence again. But this time it didn’t feel combative. It felt like… recognition, acceptance, maybe even mutual respect somehow.
“I think people just want control,” I told her quietly. “We make rules to keep ourselves from falling apart. Doesn’t mean the rules make sense.”
“And you don’t want control?”
“Not anymore. I just want out.”
She nodded like she could respect my honesty even if she didn’t agree with what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it.
Iris leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.
“You say life is bad. That it’s not worth staying for.
But you’ve also done things most people couldn’t even dream of.
You’ve stood in the path of death more times than I can count. Is it possible that was also brave?”
I scoffed. “And what did that get me? Some viral videos and an inbox full of brand deals?”
She tilted her head. “No. It got you proof.”
I blinked. “Proof of what?”
“That there’s still something in you that thinks you’re worthy of being seen. Even if it’s through the lens of destruction.”
I looked away, jaw tight. Her words were too close to something I’d been trying not to think about. She didn’t let the silence grow comfortable, not this time.
“You say you don’t want connection, but I wonder if you do but you’re afraid of what might happen if you ever let someone actually see you.”
I flinched internally. Not because she was wrong but because she kept skirting way too close to the truth.
“That’s rich coming from someone who hides behind modest clothing and affirmations.”
She grinned and threw my word back at me. “Touché.”
I shook my head, laughing bitterly. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re fascinating.”
I stood up, brushing imaginary lint from my jeans. “Yeah, well. Fascinating doesn’t keep people around.”
“I’m still here.”
That stopped me. I glanced at her, unsure of what to say.
She didn’t wait for an answer. “Same time next week?”
I smirked. “Guess we’ll see if I make it till then. Miss…”
She raised a brow. “I think by now you and I can both agree that it’s just Iris.”
“Alright, just Iris.” I headed for the door.
“I agree with you, you know. I don’t think you’re afraid of death, Danny. I think you’re afraid of being alive and it not meaning anything.”
I didn’t turn around.
“You ever think that some of us were just made wrong?” I volleyed back.
She had this knack for saying the most profound things right before I left.
Did she do it on purpose to keep me coming back?
There was a beat of silence. Then her voice, quiet but clear, “No, but I think some of us were made to feel that way.”
I laughed once, sharp and hollow.
“Same result either way.” I opened the door, the knob cool against my overheated palm. “See ya around, just Iris.”
For once she didn’t say anything.