Chapter Thirty-Nine
Andi
I’m already picking at the seam of the couch cushion by the time Dr. Reyes closes the door and settles into her usual chair. She’s in her mid-forties, always in muted colors and soft cardigans, with eyes that miss nothing and a calm that unnerves me more than it should.
I’ve been coming here off and on since college—long enough that she knows about my parents, my panic spirals, and exactly how to ask a question that makes me want to flip the coffee table. We don’t do surface-level. We don’t do small talk. Not anymore.
She opens her notebook, crosses one leg over the other, and studies me for a moment.
“Tell me what’s been going on,” she says.
I hesitate. I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my lap. “I met someone.”
She doesn’t react, just waits.
“And I fell for him. Harder than I meant to.”
Still waiting.
“He makes me laugh even when I’m dead tired. And he’s got this ridiculous, lopsided smile he uses when he knows he’s annoying me on purpose. He talks to my dog like he’s a person, and he’s just… nice. Sweet, a good person,” I say, my voice going soft.
“That’s nice, Andi,” she says gently.
“He’s a firefighter,” I add. “And last week there was an accident. He almost died. He’s still healing. And I couldn’t handle it, so I... left.”
Dr. Reyes doesn’t flinch. She just nods. “Tell me more.”
“He was getting better, and I was getting worse. Every time I looked at him, I saw a hospital bed. I saw a funeral.”
She stays silent, letting the words hang.
“And I don’t think it was just me spiraling either—his coworker did die in this accident. Brennan. It was awful.”
“I’m sorry to hear that; that must have been very hard,” Dr. Reyes says.
I nod. “I kept picturing what it would feel like if it happened again. If Cole was the one I lost this time. And it… it broke something in me.”
She leans forward slightly. “And what did you do when that fear showed up?”
“I panicked.”
“And after that?”
“I… left.”
Her eyes soften, but her voice doesn’t. “Did leaving make it easier?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Did it make you feel safer?”
I shake my head.
“So let’s call that what it is. Avoidance.”
I let out a sharp breath. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And instead of telling him all this, you ran?”
“Sorta. But I did tell him, told him I couldn’t live through that kind of loss again.”
There’s silence between us for a minute. Not heavy. Just… full.
“And now?”
I shrug. “And now I’m here.”
“Which tells me you don’t want to keep running.”
I lean back, still hugging the pillow in my lap. “I don’t know what I want. I just know I can’t keep feeling like this.”
“Do you think he’d ever give up his job? Move to something with less inherent risks?”
I cross one leg over the other, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t think so. He loves it. And he’s good at it. I would never ask him to do that. I mean…I don’t think I would. What do you think I should do?”
She leans forward slightly. “Andi, your brain is trying to protect you from something it thinks will break you.”
I release a slow breath.
“Do you agree?” she asks.
I nod, but it feels mechanical. Her words make sense, but this doesn’t feel like something I can control.
“Fear is a survival instinct. But love isn’t something you survive—it’s something you show up for. Over and over. Even when it’s terrifying. Because it’s worth it.”
My throat tightens. I don’t have an answer.
But I’m here. And that’s something.
Even if it hurts like hell.
At first, I just stare at the blank piece of paper.
It’s stupid. That’s what I tell myself as I drag a pen across the page like I’m writing to someone who can actually read it. Someone who might somehow know what’s going on in my life.
But Dr. Reyes said to try it. To write to them like I would if they were still here. Like they were waiting for a phone call I never made. Like I hadn’t shut that whole part of my life into a box and left it in the back of my closet.
So I write.
Hey,
So... I met someone.
The words feel like too much and not enough all at once.
His name’s Cole. He’s a firefighter. And before you roll your eyes—yeah, I know what that means.
I know it’s risky and messy and sometimes terrifying.
But he’s also steady. And kind. And stupidly handsome.
And he makes me laugh even when I don’t want to.
He never pushes when I shut down, and he never flinches when I push back.
I pause, chewing the end of the pen.
I think you’d like him. Mom, he’s sort of old-fashioned—insists on holding open doors and paying for dates. Dad, he rebuilt the porch at his mom’s house because he wanted to make sure it was done right.
The tears sneak up on me. One minute I’m writing, and the next, I’m wiping my face on the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
I finish the letter without thinking too much. Without reading it over. Then I fold it in half and carry it to my bedroom.
The box is still in the same place. Top shelf of the closet, behind a stack of old textbooks I’ll never touch again.
I set it on the bed and lift the lid.
Inside are photos. Movie ticket stubs. A charm bracelet. A birthday card with my dad’s messy handwriting. A pressed flower from my mom’s old garden. I lift it to my nose and inhale.
I slide the letter in on top. Let it settle.
Then I sit there, cross-legged and quiet, letting the weight of it all wrap around me.
They’re gone.
But I’m not.
I’m here, and I have no idea what comes next.