3. 셋 ‘set’
It’s Friday. Therapy day.
A year ago I dreaded Fridays. Everybody was always happy for them, because it meant the weekend was near and they could finally relax and enjoy life, even if for a couple of days.
To me, Fridays meant having to open up to a stranger. Just the thought of it made me unable to leave my bedsheets for hours. I only opened the shop in the afternoon that day because of that exact reason.
I would get up when Elisa got home at lunch hour. Fridays for her meant having to go to the office and present her progress. Now she works as a freelancer, coding for games, apps, and even websites. She made mine and didn’t ask for a cent. That’s why for an entire year she would eat for free at Sweet Delilah .
Elisa would get me up by promising to go with me to Ms Julie’s door. And so she did—every Friday—for six months.
Now, I’m eager for Fridays. Every session is a step forward. Each week Ms Julie helps me realise something about myself or something that surrounds me I have never considered. I am grateful for her and Elisa; she was the one to give me the courage to get up and work on myself, for myself.
‘Good day, Delilah,’ Ms Julie says as I walk inside her office.
‘Good day, Ms Julie.’ I sit on the sofa in front of hers.
Her office is beautiful. Very simple, but the view is spectacular. The wall behind me has floor-to-ceiling windows from one end to the other, letting us see the entire city.
‘How was your week?’ she asks, beginning our session. Her long, slick brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen her hair down.
‘It was normal. The shop was busy, but other than that, normal.’
Her thick brows lift, urging me to keep going, so I do. By now, I already know what she wants to know. ‘I didn’t have any attacks, but I panicked a few times when I was with other people, especially every time Elijah stopped by to meet Elisa.’
‘That’s wonderful. You have been having fewer panic and anxiety attacks as the months go by. Last week you had one and before that, it had been a couple of weeks,’ my therapist says, looking down at her notebook. ‘Have you been exercising what I’ve taught you?’
‘Yes, I’ve been breathing five times when being confronted by someone, or being put in an uncomfortable situation. I just don’t understand why I get this nervous around people when I talk with others every day in my bakery.’
‘You are in charge of your bakery. It’s your place. There, people answer to you, so you feel in control, and when you do that, you don’t panic.’
‘So I don’t panic when I feel in control?’ I ask, and she nods. ‘So, how can I feel in control outside my shop?’
‘The only way for you to feel in control outside is knowing that you can’t control everything and it’s not your fault what happens beyond your abilities.’
If only it were that easy.
‘How can I feel in control when I can’t control everything?’
‘True freedom is knowing you can’t control everything.’ She repeats herself; I’ve learned that’s something she does when she wants me to interiorise those words. ‘When you know that, you can control your reaction towards it. That’s the only thing you can control: how you react to things, how you let others affect you. When you get in control of your feelings, of yourself, you get in control of your world…and ahead of people who can’t control themselves.’ She winks, leaning back into her seat.
Her relaxed posture allowed me to breathe during our first sessions, and her way of asking without prying, not minding if I answered but rounding back to the question in different words, was what made me talk in the first place.
‘To feel in control, you must stop trying to control the world or other people. You can never control other people’s thoughts. Start controlling yourself, your thoughts and reactions.’
I don’t answer after that; I need to think better about it. It makes sense, like everything she says, but I can’t shake the feeling that I can’t do it.
‘Did you do what I suggested you do?’ my therapist asks.
‘Yes, I’ve already got a pal. I’m waiting for his letter.’ I smile.
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘At first, I was nervous, but because they don’t know who I am, I’m now excited,’ I say, letting out a trembled chuckle. It’s still weird for me to think that I will talk with someone new without freezing at the beginning.
‘There is a fine line between nervous and excited. They both trigger the same area of our brain, but it’s us who decide how we look at it. You can always switch between them, learn to switch for the better one, the one that makes you smile, just like you are right now.’ This woman always has a philosophical answer to my thoughts. I love that.
The hour-long session goes by fast. The sessions started to be over faster when I began to enjoy them. Before that, an hour seemed like three.
When I get home, Elisa isn’t alone again. The guys are here. If they are moving in, they should at least warn me or divide the bills.
They don’t see me as I walk through the corridor into my room. I’m not in the mood to talk; I’ve been talking for an hour and it drained me.
I grab my computer and dive into the world of a new K-Drama. They always make me forget my problems when I’m involved in the character’s issues. Some are more comical, others more dramatic and make you cry for days, but this one is more to the historical side. I like to change between genres.
In the middle of the episode, I find myself wondering when my first letter will come. The weekend is approaching, so it means I have to wait at least two days. Bummer.
I stop the drama and log on to Pinterest to look for pen pal ideas. People make their letters look so aesthetically pleasing, but I don’t have that gift. It’s hard enough for me to decorate my room, but an envelope? That’s beyond my abilities. Elisa is the one with the design knowledge.
There hasn’t been noise coming from outside my door for a while so I stand up to go prepare a meal. Before entering the living room, I peek inside and I’m faced with an empty sofa.
I text Elisa to know if she wants me to prepare dinner for her.
*No need, I’m dining with friends. It’s Elijah’s birthday. Probably only coming home tomorrow.*
I smile at the thought of having the house all for myself, but I can’t help wanting to wish him well .
*Tell him happy birthday for me, please.*
I go back into my room, dress in my pyjamas, and grab my Bluetooth speaker. I place it on the kitchen table, the first purchase I made upon moving into this house. It’s so worn off, and I deeply question its purity from all the people Elisa has brought home over the past years.
I turn on the speaker and blast on KARD. I’ve been obsessed with their songs lately. BTS, Stray Kids, ATEEZ, and more play a lot in the two hours I spend in the kitchen cooking dinner and baking biscuits. Tomorrow I’ll be perfecting a new recipe I want to sell at my bakery.
I’m finishing the episode I paused earlier and munching down my buttery biscuits when a loud bell rings. At first, I thought it was in the show, but it rings again.
I look at the time: 2 a.m.
Who the hell is ringing my doorbell at this hour? Did Elisa forget her keys?
She said probably be back tomorrow. She wasn’t certain, but usually is.
The bell rings again.
I grab my robe and step out of the room. Arriving at the front door, I get one eye close to the little hole that allows me to see a head outside. The person is looking down so I can’t see their face.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s Jeremiah,’ the voice outside says, dragging the name.
I turn the doorknob and pull it to me. In the space between the door and its frame, Jeremiah looks at me with bloodshot eyes. He’s drunk.
‘Jer, what are you doing here?’
‘I was at a party and your flatmate was there. I asked for you, but she told me you were home.’
Elisa stopped asking me to accompany her to parties after three years of me telling her no. Now she only notifies me she’s going out. From time to time, she asks again, hoping for a different answer, but I always tell her the same.
‘And you came here because…’ I tilt my head.
‘Because…’ he says, moving his hand to brush his ginger locks off of his face. ‘I wanted…to…tell you…’
He stops, and I stare at him, waiting for him to continue. I step to the side of the door and motion my arm for him to enter the house, leading him to the living room. We sit down on the sofa and I ask, ‘Tell me what? ’
‘Huh?’ His eyebrows rise, but his eyes don’t follow.
‘You said you came here to tell me something.’
‘Oh…fuck.’ He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before speaking again. ‘I like you, Lilah. I’ve liked you for four years…since we met.’
Gravity takes a toll on my face as the shock makes my muscles weaken and my jaw drop. Becca told me her brother had feelings for me, but I never believed her.
‘You can’t like me,’ I say, my voice low.
‘I can and I do.’ He stares into my eyes.
‘How can you like me?’ I stopped believing love was in the cards for me a long time ago.
‘How can I not?’ The dullness in his now widened eyes vanishes momentarily as his first normal-toned sentence leaves his mouth.
My eyes fix on a point on the grey rug, and he continues, ‘You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.’ He grabs my hand but my mind can no longer control my body, every signal to move getting lost as it’s sent. ‘You are kind, smart, funny, and pretty as hell.’
That’s not true. A song I listened to five years ago pops into my head: 8 billion people by Kiran + Nivi .
Please don’t say I’m pretty.
‘I’m sorry, Jer. I-I only see you as a friend,’ I say to him after a few moments.
I wait for his answer, but it never comes. His hold on my hand releases, so I glance to my side and find him leaning back on the sofa, passed out. Maybe that was all he had energy for.
I get up and grab the brown fuzzy blanket resting on the arm of the sofa to cover him.
Resting my head backwards on the mattress as my back touches the bed frame, my mind keeps replaying his words, still unable to believe his feelings.
My hands grip the soft fabric on my bottoms while thoughts float around.
I don’t feel the same for him and I dread hurting him, but I also don’t know what to think. He told me something I hadn’t heard about myself in years, something I stopped believing. As the years went by, my self-esteem got lower. I used to like myself, but then he made me question everything. They all did.
Flashes from my past run through my mind, and I try to keep calm as my cheeks get wetter with tears .
Images flood my mind from every time my mother would dress me and how she would stare at me, trying to find flaws to fix. Images of how she would scold me whenever I was myself with others and the disappointment on her face. The same expression she gave me in everything I did.
Images from the only two boyfriends I had when I wouldn’t give them what they wanted, when I wouldn’t play the perfect girlfriend’s role. How I just wanted to receive love when the only person whom I received it from left this world. The one person I could count on left me behind in a world where I had no rug under my feet to warm me, nothing to hold on to. Wherever I looked, disappointment filled people’s faces whenever they stared at me.
It’s okay, Delilah. You’re okay.
Inhale, exhale.
Inhale, exhale.
Inhale, exhale.
I calm my breathing but break down on the floor, lying on my side, knees hugged against my chest. Crying for a future I thought I had and never happened, a past I wish I never had, and most importantly, crying for myself; for the one I hurt the most, the one that stopped shining…the one I want to retrieve.