“Bad enough.” The words land flat, but the story is written in the dried blood under one of his nails and in the way his shoulders stay braced like the fight isn’t over yet.
“You need a hand?” I ask quietly.
His gaze softens for a second, then he looks away. “Go help Nadia. I’ll catch up.”
“Tiny…”
“I said I’ve got it.” His tone isn’t sharp, just controlled, the kind of control that comes from holding too much in.
So I back off. “Fine. But don’t disappear again.”
He gives me half a smile. “Didn’t plan on it.”
He disappears back into the garage, and I stand there for a while, staring at the space he left behind. The air still smells like motor oil and blood, like the ghosts that follow him in on every run.
I tell myself it’s none of my business, that I don’t need to know what they found out there, but the ache in my chest saysotherwise. Tiny carries his scars like armor, and I carry mine like anchors. When he looks that wrecked, it makes mine heavier.
By the time I get to my next therapy session, the need to hold myself together feels like a lie I can’t keep telling.
Nadia honks twice from her car, snapping me out of it. “You’re gonna make us late, Van,” she calls through the open window, sunglasses pushed up on her head, patience worn thin but still kind.
By the time I slide into Nadia’s car, the effort to keep my spine straight feels fragile, as if it might splinter if I shift too quickly. The air inside smells of coconut and something clean and hopeful, and I keep my eyes on the passing streets because if I let myself think about Tiny’s hands or the way he refused to meet my gaze, I might turn around and run.
“You don’t have to go,” Nadia says quietly at a red light, not looking at me but not pretending she doesn’t see the tremor in my fingers.
“I know,” I answer, pressing my palms to my thighs until the shaking eases. “That’s why I have to.”
She nods, doesn’t push. The rest of the ride is quiet, city noise muffled by the weight in my chest. By the time she pulls up outside the clinic, my hands are trembling hard enough that I have to sit on them. The burn in my throat is raw.
“Want me to come in?” she asks.
I shake my head. “If I don’t walk in alone, I won’t walk in at all.”
She gives me a small smile. “Then I’ll wait right here.”
I step out, shut the door behind me, and force my feet to move. Each step feels like walking into a storm I swore I’d never face again.
By the time I reach the door and see my reflection in the glass, I barely recognize the woman staring back. I square myshoulders, push inside, and tell myself it’s just another kind of battle.
The waiting room smells like lavender and lies. The kind of clean that tries too hard to cover up the fact that broken people sit here every week, bleeding invisible wounds into beige furniture.
I’m early, as I always am, because being early means less time sitting alone with my thoughts before someone asks me to dig them up.
"Syvannah?" Dr. Chen's voice is gentle, practiced. The kind of gentleness that means she's seen worse than me. Somehow, that doesn't help.
I follow her into the office. Same chair. Same box of tissues on the side table that I pretend not to see. Same print on the wall of a beach at sunset, because apparently trauma patients need reminding that peaceful places exist.
"How was your week?" she asks, settling into her chair with her notebook.
"Fine," I lie.
She doesn't write that down. She just waits.
The silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of pressure. I pick at the loose thread on my jeans, watching it unravel. Metaphor. Everything's a fucking metaphor in therapy.
"I taught three classes at the studio," I offer, because progress means participation. "Nadia says the new girls are responding well."
"That's wonderful." Dr. Chen's smile is warm. "How does it feel, helping them?"