The waiting room was still, the faint hum of an air vent overhead filling the silence. Late-afternoon light filtered through the blinds, striping the floor in soft gold and shadow.
Imani sat with her purse on her lap, twisting the strap until it bit into her fingers. She'd arrived fifteen minutes early, as she often did. Being early gave her time to breathe, but it also meant she had to sit with the tension longer. Her gaze moved from the front door to the narrow hallway, avoiding the small black dome of a security camera in the corner.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She didn't look. Noah didn't know she was here. He didn't know she'd been here every week for months. Some things were easier to work through without him watching — or worrying.
The inner door opened.
"Imani?"
Dr. Marissa Kellan stood in the doorway, her voice warm but her expression measured. Mid-40s, with sharp eyes softened by a calm presence, she had the rare ability to make a room feel both safe and unyielding.
Imani stood, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket, and followed her inside.
The office was familiar — muted earth tones, tall bookshelves with rows of spines she'd never read, a framed print of a lighthouse. The chairs were angled, not directly facing each other but close enough for an easy conversation.
Once seated, Dr. Kellan picked up a notepad. "How has your week been?"
"Managing," Imani said.
A pause. "Managing how?"
Imani's mouth curved in a faint, humorless smile. "By not thinking about it."
"Suppressing it?"
"Pushing it aside. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Dr. Kellan asked gently.
Before Imani could answer, a door somewhere in the building shut with a solid thud. Her spine stiffened. The sound had been ordinary, nothing threatening, but her body reacted before her mind caught up.
"You felt that," Dr. Kellan said softly. "What came to mind?"
"Not thoughts. Just… pieces." Imani's hands tightened in her lap. "The headlights. The screech of metal. The car door being torn away like paper. A grip on my arm that I couldn't break. And then—" She swallowed. "The ground was gone. Like someone had cut the string holding me to the earth."
Her voice was steady, but her eyes stayed fixed on the carpet.
"Fear?"
"It's more than fear. It's the feeling of being erased. Like my choices stopped mattering the second his hands were on me."
They sat in silence for a beat.
"You've mentioned before that most people around you wouldn't notice the extent of what you're feeling," Dr. Kellansaid.
"They don't," Imani replied. "I've gotten good at hiding it. I know how to smile, make small talk, change the subject when things get too close. People think that means I'm fine. It's easier to let them think that."
"Even Noah?"
"Especially Noah." She caught herself, then added, "He doesn't need to carry this for me. And he can't help with something he doesn't see."
Dr. Kellan tilted her head. "But if you're hiding the damage, you're also carrying it alone."
"I know." Imani's voice was quiet but firm. "That's why I'm here."
"And what do you want to work toward?"
"I want to stop reacting like I'm still in that moment. I want the sound of a door closing to just be a door closing. I want someone brushing past me in a store to be nothing more than that."
"That's possible," Dr. Kellan said. "We'll start small. Short walks alone. Crowds in controlled spaces. You set the pace, and we'll work on grounding techniques when the panic starts to rise."
Imani nodded slowly. "I can do that."
They talked for the rest of the session — about breathing exercises, about reclaiming spaces that still made her chest tighten, about how trauma could shrink your world if you let it. Imani listened, took notes on her phone, even tried one of the grounding exercises right there in the chair.
Eventually, Dr. Kellan glanced at the clock. "We'll stop here for today."
Imani stood, thanking her, and stepped out into the hall. The air outside was warmer than she expected, the noise of the city spilling in through the glass door — bus brakes hissing, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a car horn in the distance.
She pulled out her phone to request a ride.
The screen lit up with a breaking news alert:
VICTOR HALES ESCAPES FROM BLACKSTONE FEDERAL PENITENTIARY.
Her breath stalled. The street sounds faded under the heavy beat of her pulse. She stared at the headline, her thumb frozen above the screen. For a long moment, she couldn't move at all.