The days following our conversation felt like a turning point, though I wasn't entirely sure what direction I was heading in. Mara's words echoed in my mind constantly: One step at a time. It was a phrase I could latch onto, but it didn't make the process any easier. Every step felt like trudging through mud, each move a slow and painful progression toward something I couldn't quite see.
I tried to focus on the small things, on the day-to-day interactions that didn't require me to confront the darker parts of myself. I went to work, met friends, pretended that everything was fine. But all of it was just that—pretend. My mask was firmly in place, and the world saw what I wanted them to see. But inside, it was a different story. The hunger was still there, gnawing at me, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike.
Mara reached out to me every day, though I noticed she was more persistent than usual. She called me, texted me, even sent me random messages about things she thought I'd find interesting. I never responded to all of them, but I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort in knowing she cared. It wasn't something I was used to. People had always been a means to an end for me, but Mara—she was different. She genuinely wanted to help, even if I didn't fully understand why.
One evening, after another of our long, unspoken silences over tea, she looked at me with a determined expression. "Psychobi," she began, her voice steady but kind, "I've been thinking. I know it's not easy for you to open up, but I think you need more help than just talking to me."
I stiffened, but didn't pull away. I'd been expecting this moment, the point where the facade would crack, and the real conversation would happen. The one where I'd have to decide whether to open up or push her away completely. But something in her eyes stopped me from retreating this time. Something about the way she looked at me, like she genuinely wanted to understand, to help.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but I could feel the tension building inside me.
"I think you should see someone. A therapist," she said carefully. "You've been carrying this weight for so long. Maybe it's time to try something different."
I felt a lump form in my throat. Therapy? The idea seemed foreign to me, almost laughable. I had always dealt with things on my own—why would I let a stranger into my mind? Why would I give anyone the chance to see the true darkness lurking inside me? I'd kept it hidden for so long, it felt like the only thing keeping me from losing control.
"I don't need therapy," I muttered, my voice thick. "I'm fine. Really."
But Mara didn't back down. Her gaze remained unwavering, and she didn't let my words push her away. "Psychobi, I can't keep watching you struggle like this. You're not fine. You're hurting, and you deserve help. I want you to get better. I want to see you happy again."
Her words were like a knife, slicing through the layers I had so carefully built. For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything—to confess the twisted thoughts, the impulses I could barely control. But I couldn't. I didn't want her to see me for what I really was.
"I don't think you understand," I said, my voice quieter now. "I'm not like other people. I've never been like them."
"I know you're not like other people, Psychobi," Mara replied, her voice softening. "But that doesn't mean you can't get help. It doesn't mean you have to do this alone."
The silence between us grew heavy. I stared at my hands, feeling the familiar pull of self-loathing tightening its grip. I wanted to say something, to tell her that I couldn't change, that this was who I was. But a small part of me, a part I rarely listened to, wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the darkness.
"I'll think about it," I finally said, the words feeling like an empty promise. But it was the best I could give her for now.
Mara smiled, her relief evident. "That's all I ask. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
As I left her apartment that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting inside me. A seed of doubt had been planted, and despite my best efforts to ignore it, I could feel it growing. Could I really change? Was it possible to escape the darkness that had consumed me for so long?
I didn't have the answers, but for the first time in a long while, I wasn't so sure that I had to.
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