7. - – Sarah
CHAPTER SEVEN
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SARAH
“Three months isn’t very long in the grand scheme of things.” That’s what my therapist keeps telling me. “Healing takes time, Sarah. You can’t expect yourself to bounce back after nearly dying.”
I know she’s right. But I should be stronger than this.
The first few therapy sessions were a disaster. I barely talked. I sat on the edge of the couch with my hands clenched in my lap, curtly answering her questions or just saying, “I’m fine”, even when she gently pointed out that I was visibly shaking.
In our fourth session, I sobbed for almost the entire hour like my life was falling apart all over again, and nothing could possibly put me back together.
Afterward, a weight felt lifted—like maybe I could heal and learn that I’m not defined by my trauma.
She taught me grounding techniques for when things get too loud in my head or when the world feels like it’s closing in on me.
Some days they work. Other days, I freeze when a stranger raises their voice in the grocery store.
But given all I’ve been through, I think I’m coping.
I’ve started journaling as of late. It’s not much.
When my chest feels heavy, I write out whatever’s on my mind until the weight dissipates.
But that’s not the hardest part.
It’s not texting Marcus.
It’s been three months since we went on that coffee date, and I’ve been too scared to ask about the next one he promised me.
I needed to fix myself. I already burdened him with my shame at the coffee shop and being scared. I wanted to be stronger before I reached out. I just didn’t realize it would take this long.
His number sits in my phone, haunting me like the ghost of my past. When I hover over his name, my chest tightens.
What if he doesn’t want to hear from me again?
What if he was just being nice—just doing what he’s always done?
The uncertainty makes my fingers shake.
But then I think about the way he looked at me when he gave me his number. The hesitation. The way he made it clear I didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t rush me. Didn’t push.
He wouldn’t have given me his number if he didn’t want to hear from me.
I take a slow breath, grounding myself in that truth.
Maybe I’m ready now.
I type out my message.
Hey. It’s Sarah. I was wondering if you want to get coffee again. No pressure. Just… let me know.
Does he remember me? My finger hovers over the send button. What if he says no? Hell, what if he says yes? Am I actually ready? For months, I’d write this text out, then delete it, never hitting send.
But not tonight. Tonight, I press send, and the message is off.