4. #4
The chill hits my damp skin immediately, raising goosebumps. Outside, the backyard is still. The pool cover sits like a dark sheet. Beyond the fence, I can see the quiet neighborhood street, the occasional headlights passing like distant life.
D.C. doesn't have much of a view.
Not like New York. Not like places that glitter.
My balcony overlooks a backyard that was landscaped to look perfect—trimmed hedges, clean patio, a life designed for photos.
I step out anyway.
My thumb picks at the skin of my pointer finger, a nervous habit I can't kill. I press my nails into myself until it stings, as if pain I choose is easier than pain given.
I try to breathe.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
My lungs refuse rhythm.
My thoughts are too loud.
You're mine.
What would you be without me?
Ungrateful.
The word loops, sharp and ugly.
My robe flutters in the cold.
I move closer to the railing without fully deciding to.
I sit on it.
Carefully, like it's normal. Like I'm just trying to feel the night air.
But I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm thinking.
I know what it would take to let my body slip forward.
A small movement.
A release.
My stomach twists—not with fear of falling.
With fear of staying.
I close my eyes, head spinning.
Blue, my brain whispers, like a prayer.
Private exit.
But there is no exit from him.
Not really.
My hand searches the pocket of my robe with shaking fingers.
Phone.
I pull it out, screen glowing bright in the dark.
My thumb scrolls through contacts until I find the name I saved earlier today.
Grant Lennox.
My chest tightens.
I stare at it for a second too long.
Then I press call.
The line rings.
Once.
Twice.
Each ring feels like time stretching.
I almost pull it away.
Almost hang up.
Then his voice comes through, low and immediate.
"Naomi?"
The way he says my name cracks something in my chest.
I inhale sharply.
"Hi," I whisper.
Grant's voice softens. "Hey. What's going on? Are you okay?"
I stay silent because I don't know what I'm allowed to say. Because calling feels like weakness. Because therapy is the only place I feel like I have choices, and I'm terrified that if he hears how broken I am, even those choices will disappear.
"Naomi," Grant says again, gentler this time. "Talk to me."
My throat tightens.
I slide off the railing quickly, feet hitting the balcony floor, and I drag the chair closer to the door, sitting like I'm trying to make myself smaller.
I sniffle. Wipe my face hard with the sleeve of the robe.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have called. I—"
"Don't apologize," Grant says instantly. Firm but soft. "You don't have to apologize."
The tears come anyway, sudden and humiliating.
"I'm sorry," I say again, voice breaking.
"Naomi." He says it like an anchor. "How are you feeling right now? In your body."
I try to answer.
The words won't form.
All I can do is cry, quietly, trying not to make noise that travels through the house.
Grant stays with me through it. Breathing slow on the other end like he's lending me air.
When I finally speak, it comes out thin.
"I was going to do something... silly."
The air on the line changes.
Grant's voice tightens—not angry, not loud—just suddenly alert.
"Silly like what?" he asks.
I swallow.
I don't answer.
Grant exhales slowly. "Okay," he says, steadying. "We're going to slow it down. I'm here. You're not alone."
My fingers grip the phone harder.
He continues, voice calm, "Tell me five things you can see."
I blink hard, tears hot. "The... the pool cover," I whisper. "The—streetlight. The fence. The—my robe. The chair."
"Good," he says. "Four things you can feel."
"The cold," I whisper. "The phone. The chair under me. The ground."
Grant pauses. Softly "Okay. Three things you can hear."
I listen.
My own breath. The distant hum of a car. The wind against the railing.
I tell him.
And slowly—so slowly it feels like the world is unfreezing—my body starts to come back under me.
Grant says something small then, something almost casual, like he's trying to hand me normal.
"What did you speak about today?" he asks gently.
I blink, confused. "What?"
"At the university," he says. "You told me you had a seminar. What was your topic?"
It's random.
It's brilliant.
It pulls me away from the edge.
"Criminal justice reform," I whisper.
Grant hums. "Second chances."
"Yes," I say.
"Did you do well?" he asks.
I let out a wet laugh that surprises me. "Yes."
"Yeah?" Grant's voice warms. "I figured. You have the kind of voice I could tell people listen to even when you're trying not to be heard."
I wipe my face again, breathing a little steadier.
We talk for a few more minutes—small things, soft things. He gets me to name the feeling without naming the cause. He keeps my mind anchored to the present like he's holding a rope.
Then, through the balcony opening, headlights sweep across the street.
My stomach drops.
Rodney's car turning onto the block.
My pulse spikes again.
"I—" I whisper, sitting up straighter. "I have to go."
Grant's voice stays calm. "Okay. Are you safe right now?"
Safe.
I almost laugh.
But I can't risk saying too much.
"Yes," I lie.
Grant doesn't call it out.
"Alright," he says gently. "Listen to me. For anything big or small, Naomi—don't hesitate to call. You don't need permission."
My throat tightens.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Good," Grant says. "I'm here."
"Thank you," I breathe.
The car door outside slams.
My skin goes cold.
I end the call before my voice can betray me.
The screen goes dark in my hand.
And I sit there on the chair with my robe wrapped around me, staring into the night, knowing the private exit I built today is real.
But so is the door that just closed downstairs.