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Chapter 2 - "Held Together, Falling Apart"

The bedroom was dim, the kind of soft grey that came just before sunrise. The sheets smelled like cedar and detergent — familiar now. Familiar in a way that made Laura's chest tighten, not with anxiety, but with the weight of realizing this… wasn't temporary anymore.

She hadn't gone home in weeks. Home — that word felt strange in her mouth now. Cold. Hollow. The thought of stepping back into that apartment alone, flipping on the lights to silence and stillness — it made her throat close. She couldn't do it. Not anymore.

Axel had offered, gently but firmly, to let her stay as long as she needed. And little by little, "as long as you need" became… just staying. Until one day, she brought it up herself.

"I think I'll sign off the lease," she'd said, eyes cast toward the floor. "I'm still paying rent for a few more months, but… it's fine. I don't want to live there anymore."

He'd nodded without hesitation. "Then don't."

Now she lay beside him in bed, both of them on their backs, the silence warm rather than awkward. He was scrolling his phone — something about guitar gear or synth plugins, probably — but when he noticed how quiet she'd gone, he tilted the screen down.

"Hey," he said softly. "You good?"

Laura blinked once. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

He shifted to his side to face her. "About tomorrow?"

She nodded slowly.

"My first real session," she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended. "I'm… nervous. I don't even know what I'm supposed to say. What if I don't feel anything? Or worse… what if I only think I feel something?"

Axel didn't interrupt. He knew when to listen.

She exhaled, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Sometimes I go back to old songs I used to… well, not love. I don't think I ever really loved them. I just… listened. Studied them. Like I was supposed to." Her voice was distant, like she was trying to explain something she hadn't even fully admitted to herself. "I replay them now, trying to see if something moves me. But it's just static. Like remembering how something should've felt, but not actually feeling it."

She paused, then added, quieter still:

"Just like the piano sessions. It was always about practice, not passion. Music was never… mine. It was an expectation. A performance. Even when I was alone."

Axel reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand.

"That's okay," he said gently. "You're not broken, Laura. You're… figuring out the volume again. Doesn't mean the music's gone."

She turned her head to look at him. His face was soft in the dark, no judgment, just quiet steadiness.

"I don't want to go in there and lie," she whispered. "Not on purpose, just… say what I think I should say instead of what's real."

"Then don't go in with answers," Axel said. "Go in with questions. Let it start from there."

Laura blinked slowly. That actually… helped.

A small silence passed between them. Then, almost like a confession:

"I'm scared I won't ever feel the way people feel when they say they're happy."

Axel laced his fingers with hers.

"Then let's start with feeling safe," he said. "We'll figure the rest out together."

Laura didn't cry. But something softened in her chest. For the first time in a long while… maybe ever… she felt a little less like a stranger in her own body.

Tomorrow would come. And she would face it.

---

And then the moment came.

Laura stood in the lobby, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan, eyes on the sleek, minimalist sign that read "Therapy & Wellness Center – Floor 3." The words looked calm. Inviting. Sterile.

Axel was beside her, holding the door open like it was any other building, any other appointment. He didn't say anything—just smiled when she glanced at him, like he knew she didn't want words. Just presence.

She'd accepted his offer to walk with her. At the time, it felt like a small decision. But now, with her chest tight and her throat dry, it felt… monumental. She needed the anchor. And Axel knew how to be one.

Outside, summer had bloomed in full. The kind of weather that made you want to stretch out under the sun and forget the world. Bright, warm, a lazy breeze brushing through the trees. Birds chirped as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Only a few clouds floated overhead, soft and slow.

A gentle day.

Too gentle for the nerves twisting in her stomach.

"I'll wait here," Axel said as they reached the front desk. "Take your time."

Laura gave a small nod. She wanted to thank him, but her voice wasn't ready yet. Her fingers brushed his as she stepped away, a silent thank you passed through touch.

She approached the receptionist. Her heart beat faster with each step, but she didn't stop. That had to count for something.

"Hi… I have an appointment," she said softly. "Laura Hirase."

The receptionist smiled and checked the schedule. "Yes, welcome. You can have a seat, and the therapist will call you in shortly."

Laura nodded, then turned to the waiting area. Her legs felt stiff as she sat. She folded her hands together. Waited.

From the window, the light poured in warm stripes. Somewhere behind her, Axel was just out of sight—but close enough that the fear didn't swallow her whole.

She was here.

She had shown up.

And maybe… that was the first note in something new.

---

The waiting room had been quiet. Too quiet. Laura's foot had tapped softly against the polished floor as she waited for her name. Now, led down a short hallway with walls painted a soft, weathered cream, she stepped into the room.

It wasn't what she expected.

No clipboard waiting on a desk. No clicking of pens or sterile therapist-smiles. Just a warm room with muted earth tones, a worn velvet couch, a potted fern leaning slightly toward the light, and a faint herbal scent she couldn't place — maybe lavender, or something close.

It felt more like someone's reading nook than a clinic.

The woman who greeted her had kind, unhurried eyes and hair pinned back loosely, a few strands falling across her face as she smiled.

"Sit wherever you'd like," she said gently. "Would it be alright if we started by just… talking? Nothing structured. Just whatever you'd like to say."

Laura stood there for a second too long before nodding. She eased herself onto the couch, crossing her legs automatically, her fingers laced in her lap.

No bright smiles. No forced pleasantries. Just quiet.

She glanced toward the window, then down at her hands. Her throat tightened.

"I'm not sure how to do this," she murmured.

The woman didn't flinch. "That's okay. You're not supposed to say anything. Just whatever comes naturally."

Silence again. A breath.

And then, surprising even herself, Laura said softly, "I don't feel much. That's… sort of the problem, I think."

The words hung in the air for a moment — bare and too real.

She hesitated, then added, "I used to think I loved music. Or maybe… I thought I was supposed to. It was always there, and I was good at it. So I just kept going."

She paused again, hands tightening slightly. "But sometimes when I look back at old performances, I don't know if I'm remembering feelings… or just remembering the faces I was making. The way I was supposed to feel. Does that make sense?"

"It does," the therapist said quietly.

Laura exhaled, slow. She didn't cry. She didn't feel like crying. But something in her chest cracked open just enough to let a little air in.

"I think," she continued, "even when people say they care about me, it feels like they're talking to this version of me I built for the group. The responsible one. The leader. The one who doesn't mess up. That's the person they love. Not… me."

A beat passed.

"And maybe that's my fault," she admitted. "I kept building her. I didn't know what else to do."

The therapist didn't offer a fix. She just nodded, her expression unreadable but not empty. Present. Listening. Not judging.

And then, as the session slowly began to draw to a close, the therapist said, gently but with weight:

"It sounds like you've spent a long time making space for everyone else… and now you're trying to make space for yourself. That's not easy. But it's important. And you're here. Which means you've already started."

The words didn't heal Laura. They weren't meant to. But they felt honest.

That was enough.

At the door, before she left, the therapist handed her a journal — small, linen-bound, the pages thick and soft.

"Try writing down the things that almost moved you," she said. "Not what you think you're supposed to feel… just what brushes against feeling."

Laura stared at it for a moment, as if unsure whether to take it. But her hand reached out all the same.

It felt oddly heavy in her grasp.

---

Outside, the sunlight was almost too bright. Laura blinked against it. For a moment, the street felt distant, like it wasn't ready to let her back in yet.

Then she saw him.

Axel.

Sitting on the bench just a few steps down, legs stretched long, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbow. His headphones were in, but the moment he saw her, he pulled one out. The other followed.

She didn't say anything. She just walked toward him and stood still.

He looked up, searching her face.

"You good?" he asked gently, rising to his feet.

Laura nodded. Not emphatically. Just enough.

Then she looked down at the journal in her hand, thumb tracing the edge.

"I think I started," she said.

And Axel — always someone of few words when it mattered — smiled. Not the big, goofy kind. Just a quiet one.

"Good," he said. "That's enough for now."

They walked home together. No rush. No pressure.

Just side by side — and for once, she let herself believe that maybe it was okay to not be okay.

Not when she was finally learning how to be real.

---

Laura didn't open the journal that day. Not right away.

She held it loosely in one hand as they walked, the sun casting a gentle heat across the pavement. There was no rush. No pressure. And that was the point.

She'd scheduled her next appointment — a month from now. It felt far away, but maybe that was okay too. Time to breathe. To think. To let her mind quiet down without trying to force meaning into every silence.

Axel glanced at her once as they reached the corner near their usual turn, then paused.

"You know," he said, with a small tilt of his head, "weather's good today. Wanna take the long way home?"

Laura looked up. The sun filtered through green leaves overhead, flickering in warm patches on the sidewalk. Somewhere, distant wind chimes danced lazily in the breeze. The world felt… still.

She gave a small nod. "Sure."

So they walked — off the beaten path and into quieter streets. Past flower stands beginning to close up for the afternoon. Past open windows with faint music playing inside. They didn't speak much, and that felt nice too.

Eventually, they passed a little pond near a neighborhood park. A duck quacked at nothing in particular. Axel pointed at it, mock-serious. "That's me when someone asks what I'm doing with my life."

Laura laughed under her breath — soft but real.

"I think I'm more like that one," she said, gesturing to another duck slowly floating in circles, clearly with no destination.

"Peaceful," he said.

"Lost," she countered.

Axel shrugged. "Sometimes it's both."

She looked down at the journal again — still closed. She didn't feel ready to write. But she did feel like maybe, if she kept collecting little moments like this… eventually, there would be something to say.

And that would be enough.

---

As they rounded another quiet street corner, the soft rustle of trees above them, Axel glanced over at her again.

"We should go grocery shopping," he said, casual but hopeful.

Laura raised an eyebrow. "Right now?"

"Why not?" he shrugged. "We're already out. And I was thinking… maybe we could try making something new. Together."

She tilted her head. "Like what?"

"No clue," Axel admitted, grinning. "That's part of the adventure."

Laura exhaled a small, amused breath through her nose. She didn't mind the idea. In fact… something about it sounded nice. Domestic. Normal. And maybe — just maybe — comforting.

"Alright," she said. "But I'm not promising I'll like it."

"You don't have to," Axel said, nudging her shoulder gently. "You just have to try. That's all."

They ended up in a small neighborhood market — the kind with imperfect vegetables in crates and hand-written chalk signs. The air smelled like ripe fruit and something fried. Axel steered them through the aisles like it was a treasure hunt, picking up ingredients, holding them up for her opinion, sometimes putting them back and sometimes tossing them in the basket with no real plan.

Eventually they landed on something loosely resembling a recipe — a warm rice dish with sweet soy sauce, sautéed mushrooms, and crispy tofu.

"It's a gamble," he said, looking at the ingredients in their basket. "But it might be good."

Laura nodded. "And if it's not?"

"Then we try something else next time."

Something in her chest lightened again.

As they paid and stepped back out into the sunlit street, grocery bags in hand, Laura looked down at one of the items — a bottle of plum vinegar she didn't even remember agreeing to. She smiled faintly.

Maybe she wouldn't love it.

But maybe she didn't need to love everything yet.

Maybe it just started with trying.

---

The afternoon sun bathed the sidewalk in a golden hush, warm but not heavy. Their grocery bags swung gently at their sides as they walked in step, the paper rustling quietly with each movement.

After a long pause, Laura spoke.

"You know…" she began, eyes on the path ahead. "You, Sunny, and Zane… you've all been a breath of fresh air for me."

Axel turned to look at her, brow lifting slightly.

She didn't stop walking, but her voice turned thoughtful. "I was never really encouraged to be… spontaneous. Not growing up. Everything had a reason, a structure, a plan. You three — you let things unfold. You make space for mess. For trying. For getting it wrong."

Axel didn't say anything yet. Just listened. Let her fill the space if she wanted.

"I think that's what I was always missing," Laura went on, slower now. "Not just music that I liked, or goals I believed in… but people who didn't need me to have it all figured out first."

He smiled gently at that, gaze still warm on her.

"You don't need permission to breathe," he said after a while. "But… I'm glad if we made it feel easier."

Laura looked up at him then — the expression in her eyes unreadable for a moment, like she was sorting through too many thoughts to land on one. But then she smiled, small but real.

"You did."

They turned the corner toward home, the weight of the bags forgotten. A breeze tugged gently at her sleeves.

It wasn't a grand revelation. Just an honest one.

And for Laura, that was enough.

---

The apartment was still and sunlit when they stepped inside, bags rustling as they set them on the counter. Axel shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and tossed a quick glance toward the recipe on his phone.

Laura lingered in the doorway to the kitchen.

Already, a faint mix of aromas from the spices and produce was beginning to rise — subtle, but distinct. Her fingers curled slightly against her side. Flavored foods were always a gamble for her — sometimes manageable, sometimes too much. Today, she wasn't sure.

That's when a familiar sound broke the quiet: a soft thud, followed by a lazy meow.

The street cat. The one Axel kept forgetting to name, who had taken to wandering in like she owned the place.

She padded across the kitchen tiles like smoke, curling around Laura's ankles with practiced ease. Laura blinked down at her, uncertain — but the warmth of the moment softened the hesitation. She crouched and gently scratched behind the cat's ear.

Axel watched from the stove with a fond smile. "Looks like she approves of the menu."

Laura stood again, hands brushing her thighs. Her gaze flicked to the ingredients lined up on the counter — sauces, greens, tofu, rice, things she wasn't sure her body would accept. The air felt thicker with scent now. She swallowed, jaw tight.

But Axel noticed.

He walked over, slow, unhurried, and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. "We'll go slow," he said, voice low and even. "You don't have to eat anything that doesn't sit right. Let's just try."

She met his eyes.

"Okay," she said softly.

And together, they began. Axel guided her step by step — chopping with her, showing her how much seasoning he was adding, offering her little tastes only if she wanted. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced.

At one point, she stirred something — a light sauce — and caught the faint scent of ginger and soy. It didn't make her flinch. She kept stirring. The cat leapt onto a nearby chair and watched like a kitchen supervisor.

Axel nudged her gently. "You're doing great."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Maybe it wouldn't always be like this. Maybe there'd be bad days again. But right now, in this kitchen, with Axel beside her and a nosy cat waiting for scraps… it felt manageable.

It felt like something close to comfort.

---

The spoon moved slowly through the pan, stirring the sauce. The sizzle of oil and the quiet flick of flame beneath the pot filled the space between them.

Laura didn't say anything for a moment. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the spoon, distracted, as if chasing a thought she wasn't sure she could say out loud.

Then — softly, barely above the simmer of the stove:

"Axel…"

He glanced over. "Yeah?"

She hesitated, eyes still on the pan. "Would you… would you hold me? From behind. While I cook."

Her voice cracked just a little on the word hold.

Axel didn't tease. He didn't question. He just stepped closer, the warmth of him already easing some of the tension in her shoulders. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her from behind — not tight, not overwhelming, just there.

Present. Steady. Real.

Laura's breath hitched.

His chin rested lightly atop her head, and she leaned back just enough to feel him — solid and quiet like a grounding hum in her chest.

She stirred the sauce again, slower this time. Her muscles unwound.

For the first time in a long time, the kitchen didn't feel like a stage. It didn't feel like she was performing wellness, or pretending to enjoy something just because she should.

It just felt like this: two people, one gentle moment, and something warm simmering between them.

---

He didn't press. Didn't push. Just stayed there — arms wrapped loosely around her waist, his chest rising and falling against her back, steady as ever. The only sound was the quiet bubbling of the pot and the occasional clink of the wooden spoon against the pan's edge.

Laura breathed slowly. Let herself feel it. The way he held her without expectation, without making her prove anything. Just... being there.

"This is…" she whispered, voice barely audible over the simmer. "Nice."

Axel didn't answer.

His arms tightened ever so slightly, and that was enough.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. He was already looking at her — eyes gentle, warm, not searching or asking. Just waiting.

And in that moment, their lips met.

It wasn't urgent. It wasn't fiery. It was soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything except presence.

When they parted, her forehead rested against his. Her lips still tingled, but it was the stillness between them that struck her most — the quiet certainty of it all.

"Thank you," she whispered against his mouth, voice small but full.

He didn't need to ask what for.

He just pressed another soft kiss to her cheek, then tucked her back against him as they turned their attention back to the stove — a little closer, a little lighter.

As if, maybe, she was starting to believe she could feel again.

---

Laura stood still, breathing in the moment. The warmth of Axel's arms. The soft pressure of his cheek against her temple. The scent of herbs rising from the pan. It should've been simple — domestic. But to her, it was everything.

Being held like this… being cherished like this…

It was overwhelming.

Too much.

Too gentle.

Too real.

Her knees gave the slightest tremble before she could even register what was happening. The wooden spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the stove. Axel reacted instantly — tightening his hold, steadying her as her body leaned back against him, too suddenly.

"Whoa—Laura?"

She blinked slowly, dazed. "Sorry… I—" Her voice was barely a breath. "I think I got lightheaded…"

He turned her gently in his arms, hands on her waist, guiding her to sit at the edge of the kitchen stool. "Hey, it's okay. Just breathe. You're alright."

Her heart was pounding — not out of fear, but sensation. Her hands trembled slightly as she held onto his. "I… I don't know why that hit me so hard."

Axel knelt in front of her, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. "Because maybe… it's the first time in a long while you didn't have to hold yourself up alone."

She closed her eyes, nodding faintly. Her chest rose and fell with unsteady rhythm — but not the emptiness she once feared.

Just… feeling.

And that was enough.

---

Axel stayed by her side for a while, brushing gentle circles into her back, saying nothing. Eventually, once she was steady again, he stood with a smile and kissed the top of her head.

"Alright. Chef Axel reporting for duty."

She managed the faintest laugh as he moved to the stove, slipping into her role like it was second nature. He didn't make a fuss, didn't ask if she was okay again — just hummed quietly to himself, checking the pan, adjusting the heat.

Laura stayed seated, watching him with tired eyes. She felt… floaty. Like something inside her had cracked open — not in a painful way, but in a raw, tender way. Like breathing new air into lungs that had forgotten what fullness felt like.

It didn't take long before the smell of their meal drifted through the room again — warm, savory, and something she couldn't quite name.

Axel plated it carefully. Then, with the same gentle hands as before, he set the dish down in front of her, along with a glass of water and a fork.

"No pressure," he said softly, crouching beside her. "But I hope you'll try at least a bite. We made it together, after all."

Laura looked at the food. Then at him.

And something in her chest loosened again — not like the overwhelming moment earlier. This time, it was quieter. Like trust. Like comfort.

She nodded once.

Then picked up the fork.

As Laura lifted the fork to her mouth, the warmth of the meal touched her lips — soft, faintly flavored, the kind of dish meant to comfort. She chewed slowly, her expression unreadable at first. Axel stayed quiet across from her, elbows on the table, chin in hand, watching with gentle patience.

Her eyes flicked toward him — just for a moment — searching for reassurance. He gave her the smallest nod, a half-smile. No pressure. Just him, present.

The taste was subtle. She couldn't place it exactly, but it wasn't unpleasant. Maybe… maybe she could eat this. Maybe it wouldn't—

And then it hit her.

That familiar wave — subtle at first, then stronger — nausea creeping in from somewhere deep in her chest, curling through her stomach. Her breath caught. The warmth that had seemed almost comforting a second ago now felt heavy, foreign.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she set the fork down.

Axel noticed. Of course he did.

Her eyes met his, wide and unsure, a silent plea wrapped in frustration. Her throat tightened — not from the food, but from the helplessness of it. That same quiet betrayal of her own body. That same disappointment she hated letting show.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

Axel was already moving — his chair scraping softly against the floor as he leaned closer, one hand sliding gently over hers. His touch was grounding. Steady. Not asking questions. Not needing answers.

Just there.

Her shoulders tensed, jaw tight. She hated this — hated that something as simple as a meal could undo her. But Axel stayed by her side, his hand never leaving hers.

"I'm here," he said softly. "You're okay."

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.

It wasn't about the food anymore. It never really was.

---

Laura leaned forward, elbows bracing against the edge of the counter, her head bowed low. The nausea still lingered faintly, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness blooming in her chest — a familiar ache, slow and cruel.

"I feel so fragile…" she whispered, voice barely audible. "I can't even cook a slightly flavored dish without feeling like this."

Her knuckles tightened against the cool countertop, shame welling up inside her throat like another wave she couldn't swallow. "They say I'm not broken," she continued, her words trembling, "that I can work with this — figure out what works for me. But… how? When even a small bite turns into this?"

She didn't look at Axel. Couldn't.

Tears weren't something Laura allowed herself often. She was the composed one. The rational one. The one who held things together even when everything else was falling apart.

But now… now there was nothing to hold together. Not here. Not in this quiet kitchen filled with soft light and fading smells. Only her, and the rising tide inside her that refused to be reasoned with.

A single tear slipped down her cheek and landed on the counter.

She hated that sound. That soft, traitorous tap — evidence of something breaking open. Evidence of her defeat.

And then she felt it — Axel's presence beside her again. Not crowding. Not speaking.

Just… there.

She didn't move for a long moment. But when she finally did, she turned slightly and leaned into him, forehead resting against his shoulder.

"I wanted so badly for it to work tonight," she whispered, voice raw. "Just once."

And Axel, still silent, wrapped his arms around her again — steady, warm, and patient. As if to say: It's okay. You don't have to win every time. I'm still here.

---

The hours ticked by in silence, but Laura felt every one of them.

She lay beside Axel, eyes open, staring into the soft darkness of the bedroom. His steady breathing should've comforted her — and in a way, it did — but her own mind wouldn't rest. Thoughts looped and tangled, pulling her deeper into a fog she couldn't escape.

What if this was as good as it gets?What if she was broken?What if she'd already missed her chance at something better?

Her chest tightened with every inhale. Even the softness of the sheets felt like too much.

Axel shifted in his sleep. She didn't move.

She didn't want to wake him.

So quietly, carefully, Laura slipped out of bed. She pulled on a jacket over her tank top and stepped out into the hall. The apartment was still. Familiar.

She padded to the balcony, opening the sliding door gently.

Cool air greeted her — not cold, but sharp enough to sting a little. It grounded her.

She stood out there for a long while, watching the city slowly stir awake in hues of lavender and grey. The streets below were mostly empty, the world not quite ready to begin. In some ways, neither was she.

She didn't leave a note.

She didn't take her phone.

She just… needed space. To think. To breathe.

And when the morning light finally began to break the sky open, Axel awoke to an empty bed — and no sign of Laura.

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