Chapter 15
Iwas early. Not by much, just a few minutes, but enough to second-guess every step on the sidewalk toward her building. Enough to wonder why the hell I was holding a muffin and a paper bag with a stupid little ceramic mug tucked inside.
The muffin was blueberry. Not because I knew her favorite flavor or anything stalkerish like that—but because it was the first option I saw when the girl at the coffee shop asked me what I wanted, so I blurted out blueberry.
That, and it looked fresh. Unlike me; I was still in the t-shirt I had fallen asleep in last night.
Iris opened the door before I could knock, like she’d been waiting. Her smile caught on her face for a second, confused by what I was holding.
“I brought you something,” I said flatly, offering the bag like it was evidence. “For… putting up with me.”
“Is it poisoned?” she asked, grinning as she took it.
“No promises,” I muttered.
She pulled out the mug first. It was yellow, big enough to wrap two hands around, with Not All Wounds Are Visible written across it in messy script. It felt dumb now as I watched her examine it.
“I thought it fit the whole life coach aesthetic,” I explained. “Or whatever.”
Her fingers ran over the words like they meant something.
She acted like it was normal to get a gift from an emotionally stunted man like myself.
I, on the other hand, had never bought something for someone before.
Not for a teacher, a friend, and certainly not my foster parents.
Giving her this gift, simple as it was, felt like giving her a piece of me, and that made my skin crawl.
“It’s perfect,” she said softly, then peeked into the bag again. “And carbs? Be still, my heart.”
I smirked. “Just trying to soften you up before I ruin your day.”
She waved me inside, and I followed her into the familiar room. This time, instead of collapsing on the couch or slinking into the chair further back from her desk as usual, I sat near her desk. Not directly across from her. Closer to the side of it.
She noticed. Of course she did. But she didn’t comment. She just opened the top drawer of her desk, pulled out the colored pencils and a blank sheet of paper this time, and slid them toward me. No dragon in sight, but I didn’t mind.
“Care to color again?” she asked.
“You know it’s a little patronizing, right?” I said as I picked up a pencil anyway.
“Not if it works.”
She was right. It did work. Coloring gave my hands something to do.
The motion of dragging color across paper helped keep my thoughts from spiraling into existential static.
It helped me go from, maybe I should step into traffic today, or when I ask for help from above, I’m hoping for a sniper, to feeling more grounded.
Like the chaos had taken a break from harassing me, which was nice, even though it was just temporary.
“I like this view better,” she said after a beat.
I looked up.
“I can see your eyes from here.”
I rolled them instinctively, but my lips twitched at the edges. “Lucky you.”
She didn’t answer; she just kept her own eyes on me for a second longer than necessary.
People always said that eyes were the window to the soul, but I hoped that was bullshit.
I didn’t want her seeing the inside of me.
It was dark and bleak, and I almost felt bad if she were to sully herself with my decrepit energy.
Iris settled back in her chair and picked up her notepad, the muffin still untouched on her desk beside the new mug.
“So,” she said, “we’ve talked about what might come after this life.”
“You mean death.”
“Sure.”
“And you want to follow that up with…?” I prompted dragging the green pencil across the paper in messy, unspecific swirls.
“I want to talk about fear again,” she said.
I froze. She noticed.
“I want to know if you’re afraid,” she continued. “Not of death, but of the life you haven’t lived yet.”
I scoffed. “You make it sound like I’ve got some fairytale future waiting for me right around the corner.”
“I’m asking a real question, Danny. Are you afraid to die?”
“You already know I’m not.”
“Okay. So, are you afraid to live?”
I didn’t answer. Not immediately. My pencil scratched across the page again.
Sharp movements. Angry lines. Because yes, fuck yes, of course I was.
But how many more times could I tell her without sounding more pathetic than I already was?
I didn’t want to sound like I wanted help.
I didn’t want her to think there was a chance of saving me.
The question sat between us like it was alive.
Like I needed to snare it. Crush it. It made my stomach twist. Living meant trying.
Meant risking wanting things. Meant failing.
And I’d failed at the most basic of things.
Like keeping myself safe. If all I had left was a life of being reminded of that, well I didn’t want it anymore.
“Are you afraid to die?” I shot back, more aggressive than I’d meant to be. She nodded without hesitation.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There’s so much I haven’t done yet,” she said, voice calm and honest. “There is so much I still want to do.”
I didn’t mean to laugh, but it came out bitter.
“Like what? Pet a dolphin? Travel to Paris? Get an Instagram-worthy brunch?” For a moment, I wanted to be cruel.
Wanted her to feel what it was like to be torn apart and taped back together with whatever pieces you had left.
Maybe then she’d stop expecting so much of me.
But I didn’t say anything else—not because I suddenly felt like being kind, but because I was a coward.
And even cowards didn’t kick dogs or crush butterflies. They left beautiful things alone.
“No,” she said, unaware of the war my mind was at with itself. “Bigger things. And smaller ones.”
I tilted my head. “Like what?”
Her cheeks flushed. Not dramatically—but enough. “You’re going to laugh.”
“Probably.”
She took a breath. “I’ve never been kissed.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “Seriously.”
“I just assumed… I said the husband and the cat thing…”
“I don’t have either,” she said quickly. “The cat was your guess and a wrong one at that.”
“Tragic.”
She smiled. “I grew up in purity culture. Remember my dad’s a reverend. I was raised to believe that kissing led to other things and those things were meant for marriage.”
“And you still believe that?” I asked.
She looked thoughtful. “I believe in honoring my boundaries. But lately, I’ve been wondering if some of those boundaries were handed to me out of fear, not faith.”
“So, I was right, it is a trauma response,” I said, raising a brow. She tilted her head.
“Maybe.”
I stared at her, unsure what I was feeling.
Respect? Pity? Annoyance that she’d made herself vulnerable when that was supposed to be my role?
Something had shifted in the air between us.
I almost felt like I had listened in on a private conversation and wasn’t supposed to know this about her.
It felt weird. And it made me try to imagine what it felt like to be untouched.
To have a body that was so completely yours that even a kiss still belonged to the future.
“Let’s each make a list,” she said suddenly, interrupting my stream of consciousness.
“What kind of list?”
“Five things we want to do before we die. Just five.”
“Why?”
“Because you said life sucks. I want to know what, if anything, you’d still want to try before giving it up entirely.”
I hesitated. “Fine. You go first.”
She picked up a pen and began writing.
1. Have my first kiss.
2. Publish a non-therapy coloring book.
3. Dance barefoot in the rain in another country
4. Learn to surf.
5. Fall in love.
I raised a brow. “You’re cornier than I thought.”
“Your turn,” she said, handing me the pen.
I didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to see my thoughts on paper like they meant something. But I wrote anyway.
1. Try sushi.
2. Watch a movie in the theatre.
3. Confront my foster father.
4. Sleep an entire night without a nightmare.
5. Get a hug.
I stared at the list. How pathetic. Embarrassing.
Something a seven-year-old would write. But there it was.
Ink to paper. The ugliest truth I’d written since my suicide note.
I wanted someone to wrap their arms around me and mean it, simply because I existed.
I felt sick just reading it. I looked up to find Iris watching me.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
“I didn’t mean to give you hope,” I said finally. My voice cracked sharply on the word hope like it was foreign to my mouth.
“You didn’t,” she said, voice soft.
But we both knew I had.