Chapter 33
XXXIII
LOGAN
Logan sat hunched at his desk, the muted glow of his laptop casting shadows on the walls of his study.
He’d just finished drafting a section on the amygdala, describing it as the “fear centre” of the brain—a small, almond-shaped cluster nestled deep within the temporal lobes.
It fascinated him, the way something so small could wield such an influence over emotion, memory, and behaviour.
While vital for survival in precarious situations like crossing the road, it had a habit of overreacting, often sounding alarms when there was no real threat at all.
One of his professors back in his first year of university had labelled its motto, “Better safe than sorry,” adding with a wry smile, “it prefers to send a dozen false alarms on a whim, because if at least one of those is a hit, that’s all that matters.
” That made sense on paper, but how was he supposed to explain PTSD?
What was it about combat that brought a tenfold surge in anxiety disorders and created the perfect concoction for PTSD to lie dormant, sometimes for years?
If what his professor said was true, wouldn’t there have been signs?
An individual can live in flight-or-fight mode and do their best to disguise it, but there are always signs.
The average Joe isn’t a seasoned Oscar winner, so perhaps the real problem wasn’t the brain’s wiring at all.
Maybe what was truly needed was for people to pause and listen— really listen—to the spaces between words, to everything that isn’t being said.
As he reread the paragraph, considering whether to use more clinical language or leave it more accessible, the notification pinged. An email. From her.
His chest tightened as his eyes landed on her name.
For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it.
They hadn’t spoken in years, not since she’d given birth and life had changed completely.
He’d travelled for a few months before opting to move to New York for a temporary residency back in the summer, working with one of the United States veteran agencies, helping to understand brain trauma.
It was only meant to be a year, possibly two, but as more time went on, he’d started to like the idea of making it permanent.
London might have been vast, but the professional and personal circles were small, and he’d always find himself crossing paths with someone who remembered too much.
He removed his glasses and sighed, questioning whether to open the email.
Whilst he still thought of her, it had become more sporadic in nature, wayward daydreams and loose afterthoughts.
But this was her. She wouldn’t have reached out if she didn’t need him.
After another minute of hesitation, he clicked open the email, and it tore him in half.