Chapter 6 #2
The questions still spilled, begging for answers I’d never received. A tear fell on the screen as I typed, smearing the letters. I wiped it away with the side of my wrist, clumsy and frantic.
Another notification.
Read: Because you’re wonderful.
Lies.
Read: And smart.
Lies.
Read: And so damn kind.
LIES.
The chorus snapped back to full volume, shrill with outrage. Unreality surged. It felt like standing in a room full of mirrors and watching all of them crack in different directions, none of them reflecting the same person back.
Too cold.
Too much.
Too demanding.
Read: And perfect.
The voices lunged for that one, eager to shred it.
The sound that escaped me was half laugh, half sob. “Now I know you’re delusional,” I said, the words trembling.
Perfect had never been mine. It had always belonged to someone else—someone calmer, gentler, more accommodating. Someone who knew how to want without swallowing the room.
Ping.
Read: Please. Please let me help you.
Me: I don’t know how.
The truth came out stripped of defense before I could coat it in sarcasm. There it sat, black on white, the simplest admission I’d ever made and the hardest.
Ping.
Read: We can figure that out together. One step at a time.
Together.
I curled my free hand into a fist, nails digging into my palm until the sting anchored me more than any mantra.
He must be lying, the chorus muttered, but they sounded…
quieter. Farther away. They groped for old ammunition.
He’ll leave. They all do. He just wants the story.
He just wants to feel like a good person.
Ping.
Read: So for now, take one measured breath in. Then one out. Then tell me how you’re feeling. For real.
I closed my eyes.
One breath in. My lungs protested, but it went down farther than the last. One breath out. It left my body in a long, shaky hiss.
I did it again. And again. And again.
The spinning started to slow. Tears started to dry.
Read: How are you feeling?
Me: Like my head is full of bees and wet cement.
I winced at the image. Too dramatic. Too much. He’d laugh. Or leave.
Read: That makes a lot of sense. Your nervous system has been throttled all day. It’s exhausted and wired at the same time. Not a fun combo.
My jaw loosened a fraction. He didn’t tease. Didn’t minimize.
Read: Have you eaten?
My stomach howled, pinching painfully as I remembered the salad I’d pushed around at my desk but never actually ate.
Me: No.
Read: Okay. That’s our next step. Go to the kitchen. Grab something simple. Two steps max. No cooking, just assemble and chew.
The floor under my bare feet felt cool. One step. Another.
Cold air kissed my face as I opened the fridge. Containers, takeout boxes, an entire shelf of condiments. Everything felt like too much effort. Cooking meant knives and pans and decisions I wasn’t qualified to make right now.
I shut the fridge and opened the cabinet instead.
Cereal box. Trix. Candace’s influence. Somehow it had ended up as a staple in both our homes.
I pulled the box down, reached in and grabbed a handful, the shapes sticking to my fingers.
Read: What did we land on?
Me: Cereal.
Read: Solid choice. I’m going to go pour a bowl, too, in solidarity. What kind?
Me: Trix.
Read: Iconic. A documentary aficionado with Trix tastes. I approve.
Air puffed out of me, something close to a laugh but not quite.
The chorus tried to rouse itself. He doesn’t actually care what you eat. He’s just humoring you. This is patronizing.
But they didn’t get traction.
The sugar in my mouth, the crackle of pieces between my teeth, the way my jaw had to work—too loud to ignore.
Read: I swear the red ones taste different. I even googled it once. Apparently, they’re all the same flavor and my brain is dramatic.
My lips twitched. I grabbed another handful.
Read: When I was five, I shoved one up my nose and convinced myself I was choking. My mother had to take me to the ER. There’s probably still a note in my file about “fruit-shaped cereal trauma.”
A short, startled laugh escaped me, unplanned and honest.
Read: Now I always eat the broken pieces first.
Me: Understandable. You almost died.
I typed, fingers sticky, leaving little smudged prints across the glass.
Read: Accurate. Plus, you’re talking, which I’m counting as a win. Are you feeling even a little bit better?
I checked in, cautiously, like I was tiptoeing up to a wild animal. The buzzing had dialed down a notch. My hands still shook, but less. The air didn’t feel quite as heavy against my tongue.
Me: A little.
Read: I’m glad. And I’m proud of you for eating. I know that’s not easy when your day’s been this rough.
Proud of you.
They glowed against my palm. I stared at them; the words blank and unfamiliar.
I couldn’t recall anyone ever saying that to me, not in a way that counted. It felt wrong, like he’d sent it to the wrong woman entirely. But the phrase didn’t bounce off. It sank in carefully, cautious and unsure, as if testing whether it was allowed to stay.
The chorus stirred, sluggish now. He’s overreacting. It was just cereal. Don’t be pathetic.
Read: Think you have it in you for a shower?
My shoulders slumped. The thought alone made me want to sink into the floor. Water meant undressing. Undressing meant looking.
Me: I really don’t want to.
Read: I believe you. But humor me? There’s that old saying—if you’re anxious, breathe; if you’re depressed, shower; if you’re furious, sleep. I don’t know what you’d call today, but I’m guessing you hit all three. Water can help reset the dial.
The responses flew, reflexive.
Me: What are you, a therapist?
Read: Not even close. Just someone who’s crashed hard enough that I had to learn a few tricks. I promise I’m not diagnosing you from a cereal box.
He wasn’t telling me I was overreacting. He wasn’t telling me to cheer up, or that other people had it worse, or that I should be grateful I even had investors to yell at me.
He was… asking me to stand under hot water.
I could do that.
Maybe.
My legs felt like they belonged to someone else as I walked down the hall. The bathroom light flicked on, harsh and bright. I caught a smudge of my reflection in the mirror and flinched but didn’t linger.
The shower handle squeaked as I turned it, the first spray icy and unforgiving. I jerked back on instinct, then eased it warmer, testing until the temperature settled somewhere that didn’t sting. Steam folded into the air, fogging the glass, blurring the edges.
Me: Okay. I’m getting in.
I set the phone on the counter, display still glowing.
Read: I’m proud of you.
Those words. Twice now. I still had no idea where to put them, how to hold them, how not to flinch from them. So I turned away from the screen and stepped under the water.
Wet heat sluiced over my hair, down my back, across muscles that had been locked since morning.
It wasn’t a miracle. It didn’t cure the buzzing or erase the day.
But it gave my body something else to feel.
Weight. Heat. The slip of soap against skin.
The tiny drag of droplets racing each other down my arms.
My mind tried to drag me back to the conference room. To Davidson’s smirk. To Bell’s condescension. To Margaret’s careful phrasing as she shifted from support to warning.
The water answered with its own simple insistence. Here. Now. This.
I washed my face. Shampooed my hair. Stood there longer than necessary, counting seconds as spray thudded against my shoulders. One. Two. Ten. Each exhale a little less jagged.
By the time I turned the handle off, my fingers had pruned and were no longer trembling with panic.
I wrapped a towel around me. Cotton against damp skin. The mirror was completely fogged; only a vague shape stared back when I wiped a small circle clear.
My phone waited where I’d left it.
Me: Just got out. You were right. That helped.
Read: I’m glad. I know that took effort. How are you feeling now?
Me: Less like I’m going to disintegrate. More like I’m just… tired.
Read: That’s a pretty big shift. I’ll take it. Do you want to talk about what happened, or do you want distraction?
The question hung there, dense and heavy.
Every instinct screamed for distraction. Tell him about a documentary. Make a joke. Slide back into safe, curated banter. He’d let me. He’d follow my lead. He always did.
But underneath that instinct was something else. The small, raw ache that had been ignored for so long it barely knew its own name, and I was too tired to fight it.
Me: I’m the CEO of a failing company called Elion.
Me: I had a meeting with Falkirk today—the only company that can save us.
It… wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t secure either.
Elion’s investors called right after. They don’t think any of it was enough.
They want proof I can make Falkirk move faster than they ever will.
They want a miracle. I gave them an invitation to a second meeting, and they said it was nothing.
I stared at the paragraph, then hit send. The dam cracked. A thin, jagged line splitting open, the truth leaking out drop by drop.
Me: I keep replaying every word. Every look. Every laugh.
Me: Margaret taps her pen. The sound won’t leave me alone.
Me: Nothing will leave me alone. They won’t. I won’t.
The next admission lodged in me, corrosive, humiliating, but truer than anything I’d ever typed.
Me: I hear voices in my head. They say horrible things about me. Sometimes in my mother’s or father’s voice. Sometimes Candace’s. Sometimes the investors’. They all scream at me.
I hit send.
The confession sat there, exposed. Irretrievable.
Then my thumbs moved, barely pausing between messages.
Me: It feels like everyone is waiting for me to prove I’m not a mistake. And today just confirmed I am.
Me: And then you texted to ask how it went, and I told you to leave me alone because apparently I can sabotage anything in under ten seconds.
The last one burned.
I sank down onto the edge of the bed, wet hair streaming down my back.
Read: Thank you for telling me.
I cocked my head.
Not wow, that’s a lot.
Not you’re overreacting.
Read: First, I’m angry on your behalf. They’re treating you like a lever they can yank, not a human being leading an entire company through a brutal landscape.
My bottom lip trembled.
Read: Second, I need you to hear this: Their timeline is not the same as your worth.
Read: You walked into two rooms today—theirs and Falkirk’s—and held your ground. Even if it didn’t feel like it. That alone is not “nothing.”
Read: Third, the voices. I hear them, too.
I clamped a hand over my mouth. He heard them, too?
Me: You do?
Read: Of course. I think everyone does in their own way.
A tear slipped down, then another. They felt different now, less like acid, more like relief.
Read: And as for telling me to leave you alone—I’m still here, aren’t I?
My lips curved, tears pooling in the corners. Salt coating my tongue.
Me: I don’t know what to do.
Read: Get used to it?
A dry laugh escaped.
Read: I know today hurt. I know those voices in your head are loud. I can’t silence them for you. But I can sit here and remind you they’re not telling the truth.
Read: Would you consider letting me do that in person sometime? Not tonight. Just… soon. To sit across from you, share food that isn’t Trix, and be real humans instead of well-punctuated paragraphs.
Meet.
The word sparked a different kind of panic. Images flashed unbidden: me at a restaurant table, tugging at my dress, him seeing me and masking disappointment; his words disinterested but polite.
Every failed date, every backhanded comment, every man who’d told me I was intimidating or too busy or not “feminine” enough piled up.
A voice rang in my mind. I’m not going anywhere. Read’s voice, or at least what I’d imagined it to be.
Deep.
Confident.
And true.
He’d seen me raw. He’d watched me lash out. He’d read words I hadn’t planned to send, confessions I’d never offered anyone. And still: I’m not going anywhere.
If I said no, it would be because of fear, not because he hadn’t earned a chance.
My fingers curled more tightly around the phone, and I jumped into the unknown.
Me: I think… I’d like that.
A pause, long enough to spike adrenaline.
Read: Thank you. You have no idea what that means to me.
Read: This Friday night? Seven-thirty? There’s an Italian place I like—Marina’s. Tiny, lots of plants, good wine, better pasta.
I pictured it: warm lighting, clink of cutlery, low hum of conversation. A table in the corner. A man I’d only known by collarbones and words, sitting there with his hands around a glass, looking up as I walked in.
My stomach swooped. Not just with dread. With something perilously close to anticipation.
Me: What if you don’t like me in person?
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Honest enough to make my teeth ache.
Read: I already like you. Seeing your face won’t undo that.
Read: Honestly, I’m more worried you’ll take one look at me and run screaming.
Tension left my hands, adrenaline once again ebbing.
Me: You survived the “voices in my head scream at me” confession. I’m sure I can handle the rest.
Read: We’ll test that theory. For what it’s worth, tonight just made me more sure—not less—that I want to know you outside this app.
The words settled over me, a weighted blanket of praise. Inside my head, the chorus muttered half-heartedly, searching for new lines and coming up empty.
Me: I’ll see you Friday.
I set the phone on the nightstand, screen down, its last vibration still tingling in my palm.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence that followed didn’t bite. It didn’t echo with accusations.
It just was.
I lay back on the mattress, towel forgotten, hair damp against the pillow, and inhaled long and deep. The air went all the way down this time.
So I lay there and breathed.
Deeper and deeper until sleep pulled me under.