The next few days felt like a strange kind of limbo. It wasn't exactly progress, but it wasn't regression either. Mara and I had settled into a new rhythm, one that felt fragile, like something held together by the thinnest of threads. I didn't know how long it would last, or if it would last at all, but for the first time, I wasn't trying to push her away. I was letting her in, piece by piece, despite the fact that it felt like I was exposing parts of myself that I had long since buried.
Mara's presence was a balm, soothing the raw edges of my soul, but it wasn't enough to erase the nagging feeling in the back of my mind—the hunger that still lurked, ever-present. Sometimes it was just a whisper, a fleeting thought, but other times it clawed at me, demanding attention. I had learned to ignore it for the most part, but it never truly went away.
That evening, as we sat in the living room watching a movie—an attempt at normalcy, I suppose—I felt the weight of her gaze on me. She wasn't staring directly at me, but I could feel her attention, like a thread connecting us. Every time I caught her looking, I quickly turned away, afraid of what she might see. I didn't want her to know the depth of the conflict inside me, the way the darkness threatened to take over, but I couldn't shake the feeling that she already knew. That maybe, deep down, she saw through the cracks.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice gentle, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glanced at her, startled by the question.
"Yeah," I said quickly, but it came out too easily, too flat. I hated how automatic my response had become, how rehearsed I sounded.
She didn't buy it. "You don't have to pretend with me, you know. I can tell when something's wrong."
I opened my mouth to deny it, to reassure her, but the words got stuck in my throat. I looked at her instead, searching for something in her eyes—understanding, perhaps. But what I found was concern, maybe even fear.
"I'm trying," I said at last, my voice hoarse. "I'm really trying, Mara. But some days... it's harder than others."
She didn't press me further. Instead, she simply nodded and reached out, her hand finding mine. The simple touch was enough to make my heart skip a beat. I wasn't used to this kind of tenderness, this kind of care. It felt like a lifeline, and I was afraid that if I let go, I would drown.
For the next few weeks, I kept going to therapy. Dr. Callahan had a way of making me feel like I wasn't completely broken, even when it seemed like I was. The sessions weren't easy, but they were necessary. I was finally facing things I had avoided for years, forcing myself to confront the parts of me that scared me the most.
One day, after a particularly brutal session where I had spoken about the things I had done, the things I was capable of, I returned home to find Mara sitting on the couch, looking unusually quiet. She had been waiting for me, I could tell. But something about the way she sat, her shoulders tense, made my stomach tighten with unease.
"Psychobi," she said softly when I walked in, her eyes never leaving the floor. "There's something I need to tell you."
I froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I knew what this was. I had seen the signs before. The distance, the hesitation, the way she had been avoiding my gaze lately.
"Mara, no... please," I said, rushing toward her, my hands trembling. "What are you—"
She held up a hand, stopping me. "It's not like that. It's not what you think."
I stopped, confused. My heart pounded in my chest, and my mind raced through a thousand possibilities, all of them terrifying. "Then what is it?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
She looked up at me then, her eyes soft but firm. "I'm scared, Psychobi. I know you're trying, but there are parts of you—parts of this— that I don't understand. I want to help you, but I don't know how. And I don't know if I can keep watching you destroy yourself."
The words hit me like a slap in the face. I wasn't ready for this. Not now, not when I was finally starting to believe that I could change. I opened my mouth to speak, to convince her that I wasn't lost, that I wasn't beyond saving, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, a hollow silence stretched between us.
"I love you," she said, her voice trembling. "But I need you to really want to get better, to believe that you deserve better. You can't keep pretending, Psychobi. You have to stop running from yourself."
Her words were like a knife to my chest, but they were also a wake-up call. For the first time, I saw clearly what I was doing, or rather, what I wasn't doing. I had been trying so hard to fight the darkness, to bury it beneath the surface, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe running from it only made it stronger.
"I do want to get better," I said finally, my voice cracking. "I swear I do."
Mara studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she nodded. "I believe you. But you have to show me, Psychobi. You have to show me that you're willing to fight for this. For yourself. For us."
I didn't know what the future held, but in that moment, I made a promise to myself, to her. I would fight. Not just for her, but for the life I wanted, the life I wasn't sure I could have. The road ahead would be long, but maybe, just maybe, I could make it through.
I reached for her hand, holding it tightly. This time, I didn't pull away.
"I'll try," I whispered. "I'll try to be someone worthy of you."
And maybe, just maybe, that was the first real step toward healing.
.....
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