20. Will
TWENTY
WILL
Less than a week later, after some advice and recommendations from Jesse, plus a healthy dose of the privilege that wealth and connections have afforded me, I’m anxiously picking my cuticles while talking through my first ever therapy session.
Technically, it’s not even a full session, it’s a consultation that began with a work-through of the extremely long and invasive survey I filled out about my background, lifestyle, habits, etc.
The therapist’s face is calm in the little rectangle on my laptop screen, framed by a welcoming space with soft grey painted walls, framed accomplishments, and watercolor paintings.
Farther in the background, there’s a bookshelf neatly stacked with colorful spines and framed photos.
Next to the bookshelf, propped on a comfortable-looking dark blue tufted chair, is a pillow embroidered with the words Scream Here .
Overall, the setting seems to match the therapist I’m consulting with to a T.
In the last hour, they’ve sat and listened to my story with calm patience, projecting warmth and understanding.
They’ve laughed with me when I felt the need to break the heaviness with humor and asked non-judgmental questions in an effort to learn more about who I am as a person.
They made it very clear that by the end of our hour-and-a-half initial meeting, I won’t have answers or solutions.
That’s not how therapy works, they said.
It’s a journey. A process that takes time and emotional labor to work through all the nuances of what challenges us.
The most we can hope for from our first consultation is a basic understanding of what some of those challenges might be, and some awareness of what it will take to begin that journey.
This clarity will hopefully help me determine if Ezra, as they asked me to call them, is the right person to guide me down the path.
“I want to start by talking about Ari,” they say gently, “specifically because it’s your relationship with him that was the catalyst for you seeking a therapist.”
Sitting back, I exhale through my nose and clench my fists in my lap.
Here we go , I think, but nod for Ezra to continue.
I’ve never been to any kind of therapy, but Jesse told me to expect to be confronted with a lot of hard truths.
So I’m braced for the inevitable conversation that my attachment to my foster brother is not only unhealthy, but immoral.
Color me surprised when they say almost the opposite.
“You are incredibly lucky to have each other,” Ezra says. “I have a lot of respect for the initiative you’re taking to help your relationship grow into something stronger and healthier.”
I blink.
“Just you being here tells me something important,” they continue. “It tells me you are capable of reflection. That you’re willing to examine your own role in the dynamic instead of assuming the problem exists entirely outside of you. That’s not nothing, Will. And that’s not narcissism.”
My jaw tightens, and I nod once, grateful for the way they’ve acknowledged one of the concerns I brought up about my selfish behavior regarding Ari.
“You didn’t come into this with the expectations of finding someone to fix your situation, or to fix him,” Ezra says. “You entered into this space by saying, I’m afraid I’m hurting someone I love and I want to fix myself. That says a lot about who you are as a person.”
I swallow down the lump that forms in my throat.
“Your attachment to your brother isn’t the real issue here,” they say calmly. “Deep bonds—especially ones formed under traumatic circumstances—can be incredibly stabilizing. They can be lifesaving, even.”
My fingers slowly uncurl themselves, half-moon shapes in my palms filling out as the blood flows into my hands again.
“What we want to focus on is how that bond functions now. What parts of it are still serving both of you, and what parts may have become rigid or reactive over time.”
I let out a slow breath. “So you’re not saying this is wrong?”
Ezra shakes their head. “That’s not my job. Ari could be your full sibling that you shared a womb with, and it wouldn’t be my place to judge your feelings for him. But also, no, I don’t think it’s wrong. I think it’s complex. And that complexity deserves care, not condemnation.”
My chest tightens.
“Strategies that kept us safe during one point in our lives can become constricting later. Especially when the people we’re protecting grow and change, then begin to need different things from us and the world around them.”
I stare at the edge of the laptop, throat thick and lungs full.
“Caring deeply doesn’t exempt us from causing harm,” Ezra says softly. “And recognizing that doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you someone who is ready to grow.”
I meet their eyes through the screen. “Even if that means letting go,” I say, barely above a whisper, voice shaking.
“If your goal is to preserve this relationship—to allow it to evolve and thrive rather than fracture—then the work starts here. With a willingness to listen and accept his truths as well as your own. With curiosity and care instead of control.”
I nod slowly. I want that. I’m terrified of losing Ari, and a lifetime of instincts only make me want to latch on tighter. But I don’t want to stifle him. I want him to want to be with me, not feel compelled to be.
“We aren’t going to solve everything today,” they add. “But we can start by understanding why you react the way you do when Ari steps outside the carefully curated roles you’ve created for the two of you.”
I hesitate, then say quietly, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not protecting him.”
Ezra’s expression softens. “That’s a very good place to begin. Starting with the why of it all. Why are you so protective of Ari?”
“Because I love him,” I say automatically. “And because I’ve always protected him.”
“Exactly,” Ezra says. “Growing up, you were abandoned by the people who were meant to care for you. You weren’t chosen consistently or safely. You learned early that love was conditional and temporary, something that could be taken away without warning.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“But you chose Ari. You chose him when no one else did because you saw a kindred pain in someone even more helpless than you were. You protected him, advocated for him, and let that role become your entire existence, which served to protect you just as much as it did him. In turn, Ari gave you a lot of his autonomy, often allowing boundaries to blur in ways that made you feel more secure. It was his way of choosing you in return, even to his own detriment.”
Shifting in my seat, I struggle to find a comfortable position. The truth is just as uncomfortable as Jesse said it would be.
“The kind of bond you two have is intense by necessity, forged by your instincts to survive a traumatic environment. Trauma bonding creates a deeper sense of loyalty, a hyper-awareness of each other’s every move and emotion.
Your need to control the environment, to anticipate threats, to manage Ari’s safety, is not because you’re cruel or manipulative at heart.
It’s your nervous system recognizing a pattern that vigilance equals survival, mixed with a deep-seated fear of abandonment. ”
I let out a shaky breath.
“But here’s the part you need to hear,” they say, their tone firmer but still kind. “That strategy may have kept you safe as children, but it no longer serves that purpose. Instead, it’s becoming the very thing that is hurting you both.”
My hand rubs over my sternum, over the ache of my ribs expanding and contracting to make room for breath in my aching chest.
“You can love someone deeply and have good intentions and still harm them,” Ezra says pointedly. “When love becomes indistinguishable from control, it can easily morph into a weapon. Even when the person holding it never intended to hurt anyone.”
I clench my eyes shut while I bear the pain of the truth I knew and still needed to hear.
“I don’t want to hurt him. Ever. Not under any circumstance,” I say. “What do I do to fix it. To fix me.”
“To grow, you need to heal. Not by managing Ari’s choices, but by learning to process and tolerate the fear that surfaces when you don’t.
You have to face the fear, Will. And that means acknowledging, processing, and coming to terms with the potential that Ari will have the room to grow as well, and whatever that means for his journey. ”
“Which means I could lose him either way.”
“Yes,” Ezra says, honestly but gently. “Whether this bond between you can evolve into the relationship you desire isn’t something anyone can guarantee.
That depends solely on the choices you both make along the way.
What I can tell you is that the path you’re on is unsustainable and will only continue to harm you both, whether you end up together or not. ”
Before the end of the call, I schedule my first official session before I can talk myself out of it. Then I sit there for a long time, laptop dark, staring out into the city humming beyond the glass.
Eventually, I walk to the sidebar near the entryway, open a drawer, and pull out an old notebook.
Ezra mentioned journalling to write down my thoughts or feelings when I have them as a way to process.
It reminded me of the journal Ari left behind when he went away to start his own healing journey.
It was the only piece of him I had while he was gone, and I took to carrying it around wherever I went.
When I’m in Raleigh, it lives on the desk in the room I made for him that he’s never stepped foot in.
When we’re on the road, it lives with my personal possessions, next to my passport and important things.
I should have returned it by now, but it’s never felt like the right time to bring up that I have it, and I’ve sort of claimed it as my last connection to him.
Every time I’ve opened it has been like re-opening a wound. It keeps scarring over, and I pick at it until it bleeds again. I open it now, thumbing through to find the last thing he wrote. I read and let it sink in this time, the pain in the words he left behind.
You don’t love me, you love the scar
The parts of me that never ask for more
You pull me close just to push me back
I’m everything you want—except that
Thinking about what Ezra said, about facing the fear, I sit down with a pen and an empty notebook, Ari’s journal open on the end table next to me.
I fill pages and pages with random thoughts, getting it all out before I read through what I’ve written.
Every now and then, I circle lines that stand out to me, lines that mean something deeper or have a sort of lyrical tone to them.
I’ve never written lyrics before. It’s never been my thing, but I feel some of the lines the way I’ve felt Jesse’s words, or Ari’s, when we’re collaborating together to create our songs.
If I love you, let you go
But holding you is all I’ve ever known
I don’t know how to be anything else
I don’t know how to be alone.