I didn’t think I’d come back here. – Liana
Liana
We didn’t talk much on the way home.
The windows were down. The wind smelled like sun-warmed hay and eucalyptus trees.
Elias drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee.
I stared out the window, quiet.
Not heavy quiet. Not the kind that comes after nightmares or screams.
Just quiet. Still. Breathable.
And somewhere between the slow turns of the road and the rhythm of the wind, I said it.
“I think I want to talk to someone.”
He didn’t look surprised.
He just gave my leg a gentle squeeze. “I’ll find the number.”
Day One of Therapy
Elias parked the car and turned off the engine.
I didn’t move.
I stood outside the same white building I’d walked into when I was fifteen.
Same cracked sidewalk. Same ivy climbing the brick wall.
But I wasn’t the same girl.
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Then, “Do you want me to come in with you?”
I nodded before I even realized it.
So he did.
The receptionist still smiled too softly, like I might break.
And when the door opened and she stepped out, the therapist. I almost turned around.
Dr. Kim.
She hadn’t changed. Except maybe her eyes.
They looked tired. Wiser.
She looked at me like she remembered every word I said the last time.
But didn’t expect me to say any of it again.
I expected her to ask him to leave.
But she just said, “Would you like him to stay?”
And I said yes.
I sat down stiffly. Elias sat beside me, close but not too close.
We didn’t hold hands.
He just kept one hand near mine, fingers almost touching, like a safety net I could grab if I needed it.
Dr. Kim didn’t ask, “What happened?” She asked, “What brought you back?”
And I said: “I got taken. Again. I’m not okay. But I don’t want to be ruined.”
And she nodded.
Not like she understood everything. But like she’d stay until she did.
Week One of Therapy
By the third session, I told Elias I wanted to go in alone.
He still drove me there.
Miso curled up in the back seat, his head resting between the seats, nose occasionally nudging Elias’s elbow.
Like he knew what this building meant to me. Like he was standing guard in his own way.
I still didn’t say everything. But I said some things.
I told her about the smell of bleach.
About the sound duct tape makes.
About how sometimes, even now, I flinch when someone touches my wrist too fast.
And then I told her something that made her pause.
“I thought I was stronger this time. Because I had someone to lose.”
Her eyes softened. “And did you lose him?”
“No,” I said, voice small. “But I think I lost a part of myself.”
She didn’t tell me I was wrong.
She just said, “Then let’s find her.”
That night, I came home and curled up next to Elias on the couch.
He looked at me, waiting to ask, but didn’t.
So I told him anyway.
“I didn’t cry this time.”
He smiled. Kissed the top of my head.
“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
I still check the door three times.
I still flinch at the sound of duct tape tearing in a package.
I still hate the dark.
But I write now. Every day.
In a little black notebook Alex gave me.
And yesterday, I wrote this:
“I am not what happened to me.
I am what I choose to do after.”
I think I believe it.
Or at least, I want to.
And maybe that’s enough.
