60. Chapter 60
Chapter sixty
Lina
I’m in the kitchen, humming as I knead cinnamon roll dough.
It’s been seven months.
My body doesn’t flinch the way it used to. Quiet exists now without setting off alarms. I don’t scan for someone lurking around the corner with a gun. I don’t have to anymore. Alex is with me.
Living with Alex didn’t overwhelm me the way I thought it might. At least over time it didn’t.
What overwhelmed me was realizing how unprepared I was for something healthy.
I didn’t know how to act once I wasn’t being watched—or completely alone.
For years, closeness meant control. Every choice questioned. Every movement accounted for. And when I escaped that, I swung hard in the opposite direction. Five years of absolute freedom. No explanations. No one close enough to interfere.
The first couple of those years were pure rebellion.
Fun for the sake of fun. Dating because I could. Going out because I wanted to. Saying fuck you—out loud and unapologetically—to anyone who thought they had a right to an opinion on how quickly I moved on, or how loudly I lived. I didn’t owe grace to people who hadn’t lived inside my skin.
Some of them were strangers. Some of them were people I knew. People who watched me survive and still thought they got to judge the timeline of my joy. I didn’t explain myself. I didn’t soften it. I laughed harder, dressed bolder, lived louder to prove that I could.
It wasn’t irresponsible. It was reclamation.
Every date, every late night, every choice made without asking permission was me proving to myself that my life was mine again. That my body was mine. That my time was mine. That pleasure didn’t have to be earned through suffering.
And eventually, the edge softened.
I didn’t regret any of it. I just didn’t need the armor anymore.
So when Alex moved into my space—steady, present, unapologetically there—I didn’t have a plan. I caught myself cycling between two instincts. Either doubting myself, waiting for criticism that never came…or bristling, defensive, ready to remind the world that my life was mine.
Neither resembled me anymore. But both felt familiar.
The shift didn’t happen all at once.
It showed up in small, ordinary moments. The way I’d struggle with something instead of asking for help. Holding everything together out of habit more than necessity. Alex never made a show of stepping in. He didn’t announce it. He just…did. Like help was normal. Like it didn’t cost me anything.
That took time to trust.
What surprised me most was his patience.
He didn’t rush me through the awkward parts. Didn’t crowd my space when I pulled back. Didn’t take offense when I needed room or reacted too sharply. He seemed to understand that my reactions weren’t about him—they were residue.
I didn’t see how much I needed someone who wouldn’t force me to choose between independence and isolation.
Little by little, I stopped bracing.
I stopped asking permission for things that were already mine.
Stopped scanning his face for reactions.
Stopped changing my clothes because being seen felt risky.
Alex looks at me like I’m something he admires, not something he needs to manage.
He makes space for me to be confident, visible, unapologetic.
Even my moods—something I’d learned to hide—stopped being liabilities.
I warned him at first. Even tried to contain myself.
I apologized a lot.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t withdraw. He treated all of it like part of the whole, not something to tolerate.
And then there was the bakery.
That place was built from stubbornness and exhaustion and hope. Mine.
I never asked him to help. Never expected him to want to. But one day he was there—flour on his hands, showing up early, learning without ego.
That’s when it clicked.
Love doesn’t take space. It honors it.
Eventually, I stopped reacting and started choosing. I stopped guarding every inch of my life and let him share it—without losing myself in the process.
Seven months ago, I was free but rigid. Now I’m free and open.
When I look at Alex—steady, patient, choosing me without pressure—I know this isn’t something I need to protect myself from.
It’s something I get to live.
There was another part of it I didn’t understand.
I couldn’t relax.
Sitting still for too long made my skin crawl. Rest felt dangerous. Like I was waiting to be caught doing something wrong.
For years, stillness had been something I was punished for—laziness mistaken for defiance, quiet mistaken for disobedience. So I learned to stay busy. To always be doing something. Cleaning. Fixing. Proving I was useful.
When I lived alone, I was free to rest whenever I wanted to. Sit on the couch. Do nothing. Breathe.
Living with Alex disrupted that in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
It wasn’t because Alex did anything wrong. It was his presence.
For some reason his presence in my space was enough to set my nervous system on edge. Another person in my space meant my body stayed alert, waiting. Even in silence. Even in safety. I felt overstimulated without knowing why, exhausted by the effort of staying “on.”
It confused me and it scared me.
I talked about it in therapy. Learned to name it. Learned that my body was reacting to old rules that no longer applied. That safety sometimes feels unfamiliar before it feels real.
It took time. Practice. Patience—from both of us.
Over time, I learned how to sit still again. Because rest no longer felt like something I had to earn.
And here we are, at the shop living our new normal—making dough while Alex helps out front with coffee orders.
My hands move through dough on autopilot when the nausea hits again.
It’s been hovering all day—started yesterday, actually—but I brushed it off. Stress. Lack of sleep. Too much coffee. All the usual excuses I’ve learned to live with.
This is different. This is heavy. Sudden. Unrelenting.
My stomach rolls hard enough that I have to grab the counter. The smell of yeast and flour turns sour in my nose, and my mouth fills with that unmistakable warning.
Oh no.
I drop what I’m doing and bolt for the back door, pushing it open in time to make it outside. The air barely hits my face before everything I’ve eaten today comes up. Violently. Painfully.
I brace my hands on my knees, coughing, eyes watering, my body emptying itself like it’s had enough of me pretending everything is fine.
“Oh god,” I mutter when it stops.
A stomach bug? That has to be it.
Panic kicks in—not about me, but about the bakery. If this is viral, I can’t be here.
I start running through a mental checklist. Contagious symptoms. Cross-contamination. Dough I was working on will need to be thrown out. Surfaces sanitized. Hands washed. Gloves changed. I’ll need to leave—now—before customers get sick.
I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve, already planning damage control when the door creaks open behind me.
“Hey,” Val says gently. “You okay?”
I instinctively step back. “Don’t come closer. Just in case it’s a virus.”
Her old RN nurse brain switches on instantly. I can see it happen.
“Okay,” she says calmly. “Talk to me. Do you have body aches?”
I gesture my head no.
“Chills?”
“No.”
“Feverish? Sweaty?”
“I don’t think so.” I pause, assessing. “Honestly…I feel a little better now that I threw up. Still queasy, but not as bad.”
Her eyes narrow slightly—focused.
“And when was your last period?”
The question lands like a brick to my face.
I stare at her. “Val.”
She holds my gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“I need to ask,” she says softly.
Realization creeps in, unwelcome and almost absurd. My stomach twists again—not with nausea this time, but disbelief.
“No,” I say quickly. “No way. I’m on the shot. You know that. And I have endometriosis.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “There’s absolutely no way you’re asking what I think you’re asking.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.
Val watches me a little too closely as I straighten up.
“Okay,” she says. “Let me ask you something else.”
I already don’t like the tone. “What?”
“When was your last Depo shot?”
I open my mouth to answer—and then stop.
A knot tightens in my stomach. I pull my phone out, fingers moving faster than my thoughts, scrolling through my calendar. Appointments. Reminders. Work shifts. Everything blurring together.
Then I see it. My last Depo appointment. Three weeks late.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Val stays quiet, giving the moment space.
“I was late,” I admit, staring at the screen. “Three weeks. But I didn’t think that mattered. They always say there’s a window.” I nod my head, grasping for logic. “And we were just in Queens. Traveling. Jet lag. Eating differently. Way more walking than usual. My body could just be…off.”
“There is a window,” Val says carefully. “But it’s not foolproof. Especially not with endometriosis. And stress. And travel. And everything else you’ve been carrying.”
“No,” I say quickly, half-laughing, half-panicking. “No way. I would have noticed something. I’m always irregular, anyway.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t back down.
“Have you been more tired than usual?” I hesitate.
“More emotional?” Another pause.
“Nauseous yesterday too, you said.”
My mouth goes dry.
“That’s why I asked about your period,” she adds gently. “Not to scare you. But because all of that together means we should at least consider it.”
I stare at my phone as if it might correct itself. Three weeks late.
“I really didn’t think it mattered,” I whisper.
Val steps closer now, slow and deliberate. “It might not. This could still be something else. A bug. Acid reflux. Stress.”
She meets my eyes. “But we shouldn’t ignore it.”
The enormity of that presses against my chest, heavier than the nausea.
And since running outside, I’m not thinking about dough, or customers, or sanitation protocols.
I’m thinking about my body. And what it might be trying—persistently—to tell me.
I don’t want to freak Alex out. Not yet. Not until I know.
I turn to Val and lower my voice. “Can we…maybe sneak to the grocery store around the corner?”
She doesn’t hesitate. Just nods once. “Absolutely. I want to know just as bad.”
She ducks back inside and tells one of the staff we’re stepping out for a minute, that we’ll be right back.
Everything looks normal. Feels normal. But my world seems to be tilting on its axis.