78 | He's watching me like I'm the only thing that exists
The bedroom is bathed in sunrise, the curtains letting in just enough sun to warm the sheets tangled around me.
My eyes flutter open, heavy from the sedative's lingering fog, and the first thing I see is Luciano, his dark hair tousled, his eyes shadowed, he's watching me like I'm the only thing that exists.
He's laying close enough that I feel his warmth, and the sight of him, steady and here, eases the ache in my chest.
Dried tears streak his cheeks, faint but unmistakable, and my heart twists, because he was cryingfor me, during the night, while I was lost in sleep.
Before I can speak, he sits up and presses a glass of water into my hands, his fingers brushing mine, grounding me with a touch that's both gentle and desperate.
"Drink," he says, his voice low, rough with worry.
I take the glass, the is water cool against my lips as I sip, my throat tight with emotions I can't name.
"Are you hungry?" He questions.
"No," I murmur, my voice hoarse, and I set the glass on the nightstand, my eyes never leaving his face.
He nods, but his jaw clenches, like he's holding back a storm, and I know he's not okay, not after yesterday, not after the pool, the videos, the way I unraveled.
I shift, sitting up against the pillows, the gold ring on my finger catching the light, a reminder of him, of us, and I want to say something, to erase the pain in his eyes, but he speaks first, his voice careful.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
"A psychologist, Dr. Navarro. She's good, the best. She's here to help you."
I blink, confusion sparking, and I tilt my head, my fingers twisting the ring nervously.
"Help me with what?" I ask, my voice sharper than I mean, a flicker of defensiveness rising, because I don't understand.
He exhales, his eyes searching mine, and there's no judgment there, just love that makes my chest ache.
"You need help," he says, his voice soft but firm, cutting through my walls like they're paper. "I don't want you hurting anymore, losing yourself every time the past comes up. That's not living, that's surviving, and you deserve more than that."
His words hit hard, a truth I've dodged for years, and I look away, my throat tightening, because he's right, but it's terrifying to admit.
The past with my mother's hate, my father's indifference, it's a shadow I can't outrun, a weight that drags me under, and yesterday proved it, the videos pulling me back to that place where I'm nothing, nobody.
I want to argue, to say I'm fine, but the memory of the pool, of sinking, of wanting the water to take it all away, stops me.
"It's hard," I whisper, my voice cracking, barely audible. "I don't know how to... let it go."
He takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, and the contact is a lifeline, pulling me back to him.
"I know," he says, his voice low, fervent, like a vow carved in stone. "But no matter what happens, I'm here. I'll always stay by your side, Aurelia, I won't ever leave you."
My eyes sting, because I believe him, God, I do, and it's a relief, a weight lifting, but the fear's still there, clawing at me.
"I know that," I say, squeezing his hand, my voice raw.
"But when I saw those videos... Ciara in her dress, her party, all those people saying you'd love her, it was like drowning in the past. I felt overwhelmed, like it was all happening again, like I was the girl nobody wanted.
.. I didn't know what to do, so I... I jumped in the pool to calm down, to stop myself from—"
I cut off, my voice breaking, because I can't say it,from hurting myself, from breaking completely.
He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles and it's like he's absorbing my pain, taking it into himself.
"I'm here," he says, his voice rough but steady. "I won't let you fight this alone. But if you want to move on, really move on, you need to want help. Not for me, for you."
I nod, tears spilling over, because he's right, and I hate it, but I want it too, want to be more than the girl who runs, who drinks, who screams at my own pain.
"Okay..." I whisper, my voice small.
A knock at the door breaks the moment, and Luciano glances over, his hand still in mine.
"That's her," he says, standing, but he doesn't let go, tugging me gently, like he's afraid I'll slip away. "Dr. Navarro."
The door opens, and an older woman steps in, Dr. Navarro, her hair is pulled back, her eyes kind but sharp, like she sees more than I want her to.
She smiles, a small, reassuring thing, and sets her bag down.
"Mrs. Costa," she says, her voice warm, unhurried.
"I'm Dr. Navarro. Luciano thought we could talk, if you're up for it."
I hesitate, my heart racing, because this is real and it's terrifying. But Luciano squeezes my hand, his thumb brushing my ring, and I feel him, his strength, his promise.
"What do we talk about?" I ask, my voice cautious, my eyes flicking to hers.
"Whatever you want," she says, taking a seat in the chair by the bed, her posture open, inviting. "Maybe what happened yesterday, or what makes you feel safe, or what hurts. There's no rush, no pressure."
I swallow, my fingers tightening in Luciano's, and glance at him, his face soft, encouraging.
"Yesterday was...bad," I say, my voice shaky, testing the words. "Someone sent me two videos, and they made me feel like I didn't belong, like I was wrong for being here, for being with him."
She nods, listening, and it's strange, scary, but not awful, like maybe I can say more.
"And the pool?" she asks, gentle, not pushing.
"I jumped in to... stop myself," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "From hurting... From falling apart."
Luciano's hand tightens, his lips brushing my knuckles again, and I feel it, his love, his fight, his vow to stay.
"Aurelia," she says my name, like she's stepping carefully, "I'd like to meet with you twice a week, if that's okay. Just to talk, to work through things together."
I blink, confusion sparking, and my fingers tighten in Luciano's, a reflex as my defenses flare.
"Why?" I ask, my voice sharper than I mean, a flicker of fear twisting in my gut. "What's wrong with me?"
She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away, and there's something about her steadiness that makes me listen, even as my pulse races.
"I'm going to be honest with you," she says, her eyes holding mine, gentle but unflinching.
"Based on what Luciano's shared, and what happened yesterday I suspect you might have post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD.
And there's a possibility you could also have borderline personality disorder, BPD.
I don't know for sure yet, not without spending more time with you, but I'd love to see you regularly so we can figure it out together.
We can explore what helps you, whether it's therapy, medication, or both, to find the best way to ease your pain. "
Her words land like stones, heavy and cold, and I feel Luciano's hand tighten, his warmth a contrast to the chill spreading through me.
PTSD. BPD. Names for the chaos I've lived with, for the way my mother's voice still cuts, my father's neglect still stings.
I look at Luciano, his dark eyes fierce with love, with worry, and I see the dried tears on his cheeks from last night, proof he's carrying my pain too.
"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice small, trembling, because I need to understand, need to know what these words make me. "PTSD, BPD... what are they?"
Dr. Navarro nods, her expression softening, like she's been waiting for this.
"PTSD comes from trauma," she says, her voice clear, patient.
"Things like your childhood, your parents' rejection that leave marks.
Flashbacks, panic, feeling like the past is happening now, those are signs.
The pool yesterday, the way the videos pulled you back, that's what it looks like.
BPD, if it's there, is about feeling emotions so intensely they overwhelm you.
It's fear of being abandoned to the point you harm yourself, swinging from anger to despair, struggling to feel stable.
It's not who you are, it's a response to pain, and we can work on it, help you feel more in control. "
I swallow, tears pricking my eyes, because it's like she's naming pieces of me I've never dared look at, the way I drink to numb the hurt, run to hide, scream when the past claws me open.
"And if I do this," I say, my voice shaking, glancing at Luciano, then back to her, "if I meet with you, what happens? Do I... change?"
"You don't change," she says, her smile small but warm.
"You heal, Aurelia. You're still you, but therapy is about giving you tools, ways to handle the pain so it doesn't drown you.
Medication, if we go that route, can help balance things out for you, make it easier to breathe. But it's your choice."
Luciano lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
"You don't have to decide now," he says, his voice low, rough with emotion, his eyes locked on mine. "But I want you to have this, to have a chance to live, not just fight. I'm here, no matter what, and I won't leave you, ever."
"I know," I whisper, squeezing his hand, my voice raw. "The videos... they made me feel like I was nothing again, like I stole you, like I didn't deserve this. I didn't know how to stop it, and I'm scared, scared of what this means, of being... broken."
"You're not broken," he says, his voice fierce, his hand cupping my face, thumb brushing my tears. "You're mine, Aurelia, whole, perfect, even with your scars. We'll do this together, okay? You and me."
I nod, my heart pounding, and look at Dr. Navarro, her calm eyes waiting, no pressure, just patience.
"Twice a week?" I ask, my voice steadier now, a tentative step forward.
"Twice a week," she confirms, her smile encouraging. "We'll start slow, talk about what feels right. You're in control here."
I take a breath and start counting, one, two, three, because it's easier with Luciano's hand in mine.
"Okay," I finally say, the word small but heavy, a choice to try, to fight, not just for him but for me. "I'll do it."
Luciano's smile is proud, and he pulls me against him, his arms wrapping tight, his lips brushing my forehead.
"Thank you," he murmurs, and lean into him, my tears drying, my heart still scared but hopeful.