“I don’t scream anymore,” I say. “Sometimes I wake up reaching for something. Sometimes Tiny is already holding me before my eyes even open.”
“And what helps you most in those moments?”
I look down at Peanut. “She does.” Peanut stretches her paw onto my thigh as if proving it.
“And Tiny?”
I smile faintly before speaking. “He puts his hands on my cheeks. Says,‘You’re here. I’ve got you. Nothing is touching you.’And I believe him.”
“What happens inside you when you believe him?”
“My bones loosen,” I say. “Breathing doesn’t hurt.”
“Show me that breath.”
I inhale slowly. Peanut purrs. I exhale.
“She is syncing with you,” Dr. Chen notes. “This is rare for cats.”
“She follows me everywhere,” I say. “If I shake, she climbs on my chest. If I cry, she touches my face.”
“That is emotional regulation. Have you considered therapy-animal training?”
My eyes widen. “She can actually do that?”
“She already does,” Dr. Chen says with a gentle smile. “We formalize it.”
“I want to try,” I whisper. “For both of us.”
“We will start next week.”
My fingers tighten on Peanut’s fur. “Can I tell you something that feels stupid?”
“Nothing you say is stupid.”
“I drew something,” I say. “For the first time since…”
She nods gently. “Go on.”
“I drew Tiny’s hands.”
Her brows rise. “Why his hands?”
“Because they terrify me and comfort me,” I say. “They look like weapons. But when he touches me… I feel held. When I drew them, I wasn’t afraid of what they could do. Only what they protect.”
“That is healing,” she says softly. “Not forgetting. Not pretending. Allowing space for new truth.”
My eyes sting. “Some days I feel strong. Other days, a noise drops and I am right back there.”
“Does that make you feel like you are failing?”
“Yes.”
“You are not failing,” she says. “You are human.”
Peanut climbs onto my shoulder and rubs her cheek against mine. Her purr vibrates through my jaw.
Dr. Chen watches her with a smile. “Tell me something you want back. Something that was taken from you.”