If healing is boring, then therapy is…weird.
Not bad. Not good. Just weird.
Like walking into a room where someone has already read the spoiler summary of your life and is politely waiting for you to admit it.
Dr. Kora's office doesn't look like the picture in my head. I expected cold white walls and a stiff chair and a clipboard. Instead, there's a big window facing the ocean, sheer curtains breathing with the breeze. A bookshelf stuffed with novels and psychology textbooks. Plants that are somehow still alive. And a couch that doesn't look like a couch—it looks like a nap trap.
"Come in, Naira," she says, like we're old friends and not a girl and the woman she's supposed to unload her brain on.
Her voice is warm. Her braids are pulled back in a low bun. She's wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater, not a lab coat. It throws me off.
Mom squeezes my shoulder before backing out of the doorway. "I'll be in the car," she says. "Text me if you need me."
"Okay," I mumble, pretending my heart isn't doing gymnastics.
Rowan is already inside, sprawled on the opposite end of the couch, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hands twisted together like he doesn't know what to do with them.
"Hey, warrior," he says. His voice is too bright.
"Hey, emotional support himbo," I shoot back automatically.
Dr. K smiles like she expected that.
"You can sit wherever you like," she says. "Couch, armchair, floor. I don't make rules about comfort."
I hesitate, then drop onto the couch between them, leaving a safe space of cushion on either side. Close enough to feel Rowan's warmth. Far enough to pretend I'm here for me, not because I'm scared to be alone with my own thoughts.
"So," Dr. K says, settling into the armchair across from us, notebook balanced on her knee. "Last time, we talked about what happened under the bleachers, and a little about your dad. How's your body feeling today, Naira?"
I blink.
"My…body?" I repeat.
"Yes," she says. "Jaw. Ribs. Thigh. Stomach. Muscles. Heart rate. The main character and her sidekick." She nods at my chest.
I huff out a laugh. "The sidekick is annoying."
"Accurate," Rowan mutters.
I elbow him lightly.
"My jaw still aches," I admit. "Ribs too. Thigh is…mostly healed." My fingers twitch toward my shorts, then stop. "Sometimes I feel like someone pressed pause on that night and my body doesn't know it's over."
She nods, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "That makes sense," she says. "Trauma doesn't care about calendars. Your body doesn't know time the way your brain does."
"Fun," I mutter.
"How's your head?" she adds.
"Loud," I say before I can censor it. "Still. Less screaming, more…whispering."
"What are the whispers saying?"
I shrug, staring at a potted monstera in the corner. "That it's not over. That I'm still in danger. That Maggy could come back. That my dad could. That I'll mess this up." I flick my gaze toward Rowan. "All of it."
He shifts, and I feel the couch dip.
Dr. K leans forward slightly. "When those whispers get loud," she says, "what do you usually do?"
I feel the ghost of heated glass against my skin.
My throat tightens. "I used to…burn it out," I say. "My brain, I mean. The feelings." I tap my thigh. "Here."
"And now?"
I look down at my wrist.
Five tiny blue dashes.
"Now I count," I say quietly. "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco. I text people. I…annoy him." I jerk my chin at Rowan.
"An honor," he says.
Dr. K's eyes soften. "That's a huge shift," she says. "You moved from hurting your body in secret to asking for help out loud. That's not small, Naira."
I shrug, but the words land somewhere deep.
She flips a page. "Last time, we talked about 'parts' of you," she continues. "Can you remind me what we named?"
I roll my eyes. "You named them."
"Humor me," she says.
I sigh. "There's Phoenix Me," I mutter. "The one everyone sees now. Cheer captain. Almost‑murder victim. Girl on the mural."
She nods.
"Then there's Raccoon Me," I add, lips twitching. "The one who feels like roadkill held together with duct tape."
Rowan snorts.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," he says. "Just that I'm dating a raccoon. It tracks."
"Shut up," I say, but warmth curls in my chest.
"And then?" Dr. K prompts.
I pick at a loose thread on my hoodie. "The Little Girl," I say softly. "The one who flinches every time someone raises their voice. Who thought getting hit was normal. Who thought…love meant staying."
The room goes very quiet.
"Which part showed up under the bleachers?" she asks.
All of them, I want to say.
"Phoenix," I answer instead. "The one who talked back. The one who fought. The one who didn't beg."
"And which part got hurt?"
My throat closes.
"Raccoon," I whisper. "Roadkill. Mess. Wrong place, wrong time."
"And the Little Girl?" she asks gently.
I stare at my knees until my vision blurs. "She thought she deserved it," I admit. "For taking up space. For existing. For daring to be happy for, like, five seconds."
Rowan's hands curl into fists on his lap.
Dr. K notices but doesn't call it out. "Of those three parts," she says to me, "which one do you think deserves to run your life?"
"None of them," I say immediately. "They all suck."
She smiles a little. "Honest. I like it." She taps her pen against the notebook. "So here's what I want to try today. Not EMDR. Not breathing exercises. Just…a conversation. Between you and those parts."
I squint at her. "Like…inside my head?"
"Or out loud," she offers. "You can talk to them like they're sitting in these other chairs. Rowan is here because he sees more of your daily life than I do. He doesn't have to speak. He can just witness. If that feels safe."
I glance at him.
He nods once, quiet for once in his life.
"Okay," I say slowly. "I'll try. No promises."
"That's all therapy is," she says. "No promises. Just trying."
She gestures to the two empty chairs next to her. "Which part do you want to put here first?"
My chest tightens.
"Little Girl," I say, barely above a whisper.
"Tell me what she looks like," Dr. K says.
I swallow. "She's…eight," I say slowly. "Hair shorter. Braids. Knees always scraped." My hands twist together. "She's holding a stuffed lion with one eye missing. She's sitting on the floor of our old apartment, pressing herself against the couch so she doesn't have to hear them yelling."
Them.
Mom. Dad.
"How does she feel?"
"Like her stomach is going to explode," I say. "Like if she breathes too loud, he'll notice."
"What would you say to her," Dr. K asks, "if you could sit next to her now?"
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
My throat burns. My eyes sting.
"I don't know," I choke.
"It doesn't have to be perfect," she reminds me. "Just true."
True.
I exhale, a shaky sound.
"I'd tell her it's not her fault," I whisper. "That she's not making him angry by existing. That she doesn't have to be perfect to deserve not getting hit."
My voice cracks.
"I'd tell her Mom leaves," I add, tears spilling now. "Eventually. That they move to the beach. That she gets a stupid room full of squishmallows and a sister who steals her socks. That her life doesn't end in that apartment."
"And what do you think she'd say back?" Dr. K asks quietly.
"I don't believe you," I say immediately. "That's what she'd say. She'd say you're lying. That grown‑ups always say it gets better and then it doesn't."
Something brushes my knuckles.
Rowan's hand.
He doesn't squeeze, doesn't talk. Just…anchors.
"What would you say then?" Dr. K asks.
I wipe my cheeks with the heel of my palm. "I'd say, 'Okay. You don't have to believe me yet,'" I murmur. "'Just hold on. One more day. One more night. One more count to five.'"
My wrist burns where the blue dashes are.
"Good," Dr. K says softly. "That sounds like compassion. You don't owe her perfection. Just company."
A bitter laugh bubbles up. "I didn't have company back then."
"You do now," Rowan says quietly. It's the first thing he's said in ten minutes.
I glance at him.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are glassy.
Dr. K clocks it. "How are you doing over there?" she asks him.
He clears his throat. "I hate him," he says simply. "Her dad."
"Join the club," I mutter.
"And I hate that little you thought she had to earn not getting hurt," he adds, voice rough. "She shouldn't have had to be…anything. She was just a kid."
I look away, heat and cold battling in my chest.
"Can I ask you both something?" Dr. K says.
We nod.
"What would it look like if Phoenix didn't have to protect Little Girl all the time?" she asks. "If she didn't have to be on twenty‑four/seven?"
I imagine it.
Phoenix Me, exhausted, finally putting down her sword.
Raccoon Me, not in the middle of the road for once, but curled up on a couch, wrapped in a blanket.
Little Girl Me, coloring at a table, no yelling in the background.
Peace.
It feels so far away it almost hurts to picture it.
"I don't know," I say. "I've never met that version of me."
"That's okay." Dr. K's smile is soft. "Maybe we can start with something smaller. For homework, I want you to write a letter from Future You to Little You. You don't have to believe a word of it. Just write it."
"Future Me?" I echo.
She nods. "Twenty‑four. Twenty‑eight. Thirty. Pick an age that feels ridiculous. Let her talk. See what she says."
I snort. "She probably has a therapist, too."
"Probably," Dr. K agrees. "Smart girl."
A laugh slips out of me, watery but real.
"Anything else you want to say before we end?" she asks.
My chest feels raw, scraped open, but lighter.
"Yeah," I say.
I look at the empty chair where I pictured Little Me.
"If you're still under that couch," I whisper, "I'm coming back for you."
The room is silent.
Rowan squeezes my hand.
Dr. K nods once, like a judge stamping something official.
"Session complete," she says gently. "Good work, both of you."
—
"I feel like I got hit by a feelings truck," I mutter as we step out into the hallway.
Rowan barks out a laugh. "Same. Ten out of ten, would hate again."
Dr. K's door clicks shut behind us. Mom is at the far end of the corridor, pretending to read a magazine and failing.
"You okay?" she calls.
"I didn't run away," I call back. "So, that's a win."
Her shoulders relax.
"I'll meet you guys at home," she says. "Michel wants to make 'therapeutic pasta.' Don't ask."
"Terrifying," I say.
She smiles and heads toward the elevator.
Rowan and I step out into the parking lot. The ocean is a strip of silver beyond the buildings, the air heavy with salt and gasoline.
We walk in silence until we reach Lana.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks, leaning against the hood.
"No," I say. "But I probably should."
He nods. "You were…incredible in there, you know."
I scoff. "I cried on a stranger's couch."
"Yeah," he says softly. "That's what I mean."
I swallow, looking at the ocean instead of him.
"I hate that she still lives in my head," I admit. "Eight‑year‑old me. I hate that he does, too."
He nudges my shoulder with his. "You kicked both of them out of the driver's seat today," he says. "That's…a start."
I huff. "You sound like Dr. K."
"Hot," he says.
I elbow him. "You're impossible."
"I know," he says easily. "Still your idiot, though."
We stand there for a minute, letting the wind fill the space between us.
"I have homework," I say at last.
"Same," he says. "She told me I have to write down every time I want to make a bet or flirt my way out of feelings and then actually…feel them." He makes a face. "Gross."
A laugh escapes me. "You? Feeling things? Revolutionary."
He smirks. "Don't get used to it." Then his expression softens. "You want to go to the lookout?"
My stomach flips.
"The cliff one?" I ask.
"Yeah." He shrugs. "We don't have to talk. We can just sit. Or insult my car. Your choice."
I hesitate.
The last time we were there, I told him I was scared of losing all of this. He told me he cared now. We made out like idiots.
Today, I feel…fragile. Cracked. But not broken.
"Okay," I say. "Let's go."
—
The lookout is quieter than last time.
The sky is overcast, clouds smudging the horizon. The ocean below is a restless gray, waves throwing themselves at the rocks over and over like they're trying to change the shape of the shore through sheer stubbornness.
Relatable.
We sit on the hood of Lana, knees drawn up, a shared hoodie spread under us so the metal doesn't freeze our asses off.
Rowan hands me a bottle of iced tea. "For your throat," he says.
"From when I swallowed broken glass?" I ask dryly.
"Exactly," he says.
We drink in silence for a while, watching the water.
"So," he says eventually, "what did Future You look like?"
I snort. "Haven't met her yet. Dr. K wants me to write her a whole damn monologue."
"You love monologues," he points out. "You literally asked to roast Shakespeare in front of a captive audience."
"True," I admit.
"Okay, then." He shifts, turning to face me more. "What's one thing you hope she has that you don't?"
I stare at the line where the sky meets the sea.
"Peace," I say quietly. "Not…perfect happiness. Just…less war in her own head."
He nods slowly. "What does that look like?"
I think about it.
"No glass," I say. "No counting because I'm trying not to burn my skin. Just counting because I like the way the numbers feel in my mouth."
He smiles a little. "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco," he murmurs.
"Show‑off," I say, but my lips twitch.
"What else?" he asks.
"A life where 'Maggy' isn't the first word people think of when they hear my name," I say. "Or 'bet.' Or 'knife.' Where I'm not the trauma girl. Just…Naira. The annoying, loud, sometimes‑smart, sometimes‑idiot girl who likes literature and cheer and breakfast food too much."
He's quiet for a second.
"I already see you like that," he says.
Heat floods my chest.
I look away, because if I look at him too long, I might start crying again and I am tired of my tear ducts being overachievers.
"What does Future You have?" I ask, deflecting.
He leans back on his palms, staring up at the heavy sky.
"An actual relationship with his feelings," he says. "Not just punching them. Or flirting them away."
I snort. "Ambitious."
"Shut up," he says. "Also…maybe a shot at playing past high school. Or not. Just…something he chose, instead of falling into it because everyone said he was good at it."
"Football?"
"Yeah." He shrugs. "Or cooking. Or stand‑up comedy about my trauma. I don't know."
I laugh. "You'd be horrible at stand‑up."
"Rude," he says.
We fall into a comfortable quiet again.
Below us, a wave crashes, sending up a spray that catches the wind.
"You ever think about leaving?" I ask.
"Nightfall?"
"Yeah."
"Every day," he says instantly. "And never."
I huff. "That's helpful."
He smirks. "Welcome to my brain." His smile fades a little. "I used to want to bolt. Anywhere. Just…gone. Now I think about leaving because I…could. On my own terms. Not because I'm running from something."
I chew on that.
"Dr. K said something today," I say. "About control. About how hurting myself was the one thing I felt like I decided. Everything else just happened to me. Dad. Moving. Maggy. The bet. Even…you."
"I happened to you?" he asks, amused.
"Like an infestation," I deadpan.
He laughs.
"But she's right," I continue. "I didn't choose most of it. It chose me. That's why staying feels…harder. More real. I could have died. I could still burn. I could run. But I don't. I stay. I go to class. I sit in that chair and talk to a stranger about the ugliest parts of my life."
Rowan's gaze is warm and heavy on my profile.
"Warrior shit," he says softly.
"Raccoon shit," I correct.
He grins. "Same thing."
A gust of wind whips my curls across my face. I tuck them behind my ear, squinting at the churning water.
"I thought love was supposed to fix everything," I say suddenly.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"That's what the movies say," I say. "You meet The Guy, and suddenly your trauma is quirky instead of crippling. Your scars are poetic. Your brain stops trying to kill you."
He snorts. "Lies."
"Big lies," I agree. "You didn't fix me."
He goes still.
"Sorry to disappoint," he manages.
I nudge his knee with mine.
"That's not what I mean," I say. "You didn't fix me. But you…make staying easier. You make the hard days less loud."
He exhales, shoulders dropping.
"You do that for me too," he says quietly. "Just so you know."
We look at each other then.
Really look.
His eyes are still a little bruised at the edges, a reminder of fists and blood and that night. Mine are probably red‑rimmed from crying in Dr. K's office.
We're a mess.
And somehow, it feels like the most honest we've ever been.
"Rowan?" I say.
"Yeah?"
"If you get that camp," I say, the words tasting like salt and fear, "or some scout comes sniffing around, I'm not going to be the girl who begs you to stay. I can't do that to you."
His brows pull together. "Where is this coming from?"
"Future Me letter," I say. "Future You brain. The fact that we're sixteen and nothing ever stays the same." I stare at my hands. "I don't want to be the reason you don't take something that could change your life. Even if it means…"
I can't finish.
Leaving. Breaking. Hurting.
He leans in, catching my gaze.
"Hey," he says softly. "Look at me."
I do.
"If I get a shot at something bigger, I'm taking it," he says. "Because for the first time, I actually want a future. But I'm not going to blame you for any choice I make. That's mine."
He taps my wrist, right over the blue dashes.
"Just like this," he adds. "You're not burning anymore. That's not because of me. That's you."
My throat tightens.
"What if we don't make it?" I ask, barely audible. "What if we fall apart?"
He thinks about it.
"Then we fall apart," he says. "And we go to therapy about it. And we don't make it another reason to hate ourselves."
I stare at him.
"That's…weirdly mature," I say.
He grimaces. "Don't say that. I have a reputation."
A laugh bursts out of me.
He smiles, watching me like that sound is his favorite thing in the world.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"Depends," I reply. "Is it dumb?"
"Probably," he admits. "What does it feel like now? Love. For you."
The question hangs in the air between us.
I look at the ocean.
At the waves that don't stop moving, even when no one is watching.
"At first, it felt like drowning," I say slowly. "Like every time I cared about someone, I got dragged under. Dad. Maggy. You. Myself."
He flinches a little at his own name.
"Now…" I search for it. "Now it feels like…standing on the shore during a storm."
He raises a brow.
"Romantic," he deadpans.
"Shut up," I say, but my lips curve. "I mean…the waves still come. The fear. The urges. The memories. They still hit. Hard. But I know they'll go back out again too. And there are people standing next to me now, holding my hand, making dumb jokes, refusing to let me walk into the water alone."
I finally look back at him.
"And sometimes," I add, "when it's calm, it's…beautiful."
He's quiet.
"Shakespeare could never," he says at last, voice rough.
I laugh.
He leans over, bumping his forehead gently against mine.
"I don't know what's going to happen next year," he says quietly. "Or next month. Or, like, next Tuesday. But I know this." He squeezes my hand. "I want to keep showing up. For you. For me. For whatever this is."
I look down at our joined hands, then back at the ocean.
The waves crash. Pull back. Crash again.
No guarantees.
No promises.
Just motion.
Just showing up.
"Yeah," I say. "Me too."
We sit there, shoulders pressed together, watching the water slam itself against the rocks and retreat, only to come back again.
Future Me can wait.
Future Him too.
Right now, it's just us. Two cracked kids on the hood of an overpriced car, trying to learn how to stay.
For once, that feels like enough.
I don't say it out loud—not yet—but in my head, the answer to the question that started all of this whispers back at me.
What does love feel like?
Not a rescue.
Not a promise.
Just this: two people, as broken as the tide, choosing—over and over—to come back to the shore.
Even when the storm keeps changing.
Even when the ocean doesn't promise to stay the same.
It just keeps showing up.
And so do we.