Chapter 19: A Hard Start
It’s just a small step. But it’s so hard. -Liana
Liana
“Do you want me to walk you to class?”
Elias asked while the truck idled outside the drop-off loop.
I hesitated.
Then shook my head. “No, thanks.”
I could feel him looking at me, even as I unbuckled my seatbelt.
I should try to be independent, I thought. You’ve already done so much. I don’t want to be a burden.
He didn’t argue.
Just said, “Text me when you’re done.”
And I nodded, stepped out, and shut the door.
I got lost before I even found the classroom.
Glendale Community College wasn’t huge, but to someone who hadn’t stepped foot in a school building in nearly six years, it felt massive. Cold. Confusing.
I followed the campus map, misread one hallway, looped back twice.
By the time I found Room 203, my hands were sweating so badly I nearly dropped the doorknob.
Intro to Psychology.
The sentence I saw in the promotional brochure back then popped into my head: “Understanding human psychological activities and the reasons for behavior.”
and I want to know what’s wrong with me recently.
Just one class. One day a week.
I thought it’d be simple.
It wasn’t.
The professor walked in with a click of heels and a stack of papers under one arm.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t waste time.
Just wrote DR. BAILEY on the board and jumped in.
She talked fast.
Not mean. Just efficient.
But the words
“Cognitive dissonance.”
“Operant conditioning.”
“Behavioral reinforcement.”
might as well have been in another language.
I tried to keep up.
Tried to take notes.
Tried not to look like someone who wanted to disappear.
The girl next to me had three highlighters and a color-coded notebook.
I had a pen that skipped.
By the end of the lecture, I’d written down exactly seven words I understood.
My brain felt like static.
But worse than that, my chest ached.
A slow, quiet kind of pressure.
Not panic. Just that familiar cold spread behind my ribs.
I wasn’t panicking.
I was just… disappearing.
Elias was waiting by the curb when I walked out.
He didn’t say anything at first.
The ride home was quiet. Windows cracked, soft radio hum.
My throat itched with unsaid things.
Halfway back, he asked, “How was it?”
I kept my eyes on the road.
“I didn’t understand half of it.”
He nodded.
“They use big words. I felt stupid.”
“You’re not.”
“I couldn’t concentrate. My legs were shaking the whole time. I didn’t even write anything down.”
“It was your first day.”
I didn’t respond.
But when we got home, he handed me a protein bar and said, “You survived. That’s step one.”
The second week was just as hard.
But I showed up.
I sat in the back corner again.
Tried to take notes.
Avoided eye contact during the group discussion I didn’t join.
That day, after class, the professor called me over.
“Chen, right?”
I froze. Then nodded.
She studied me. Not harshly. Just… carefully.
“You didn’t join a group today.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t know we were supposed to.”
“You weren’t. It was optional. But I noticed.”
She tilted her head.
“You always sit in the same spot. You don’t speak. But you’re always watching.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I used to work with social outreach programs,” she said. “We partnered with shelters and trauma recovery groups. I recognize the signs.”
I stiffened.
She held up a hand. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to understand how to support you.”
Her voice was calm. Direct. No pity.
“You’re not a native speaker?”
“No.”
“You’ve done a lot on your own to get here, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“You’re not the only one,” she said. “But most don’t make it this far. You’re showing up. That counts.”
I didn’t feel like it counted.
“I can help,” she said. “I have office hours here every Tuesday at 2 p.m.”
She didn’t say come.
She just said it was there.
A week later
After class, I walked out of the building slower than usual.
My class was in the morning.
But I stayed.
I texted Elias and told him I needed to use the library.
He didn’t question it.
I had lunch at the cafeteria.
Or at least I tried.
The food was fine. The room was loud.
I kept looking at the clock.
2:03.
She is there now.
I stood under a tree for a while. Watched other students walk past me like I was a signpost.
My feet wouldn’t move.
What if she was just being polite?
What if she changed her mind when she saw how bad I really was?
What if I went in and forgot every English word I knew?
But then again…
What if I didn’t go, and stayed exactly where I was?
I looked back toward the office building.
One hallway.
One door.
One choice.
I adjusted the strap on my backpack.
And took the first step.
Chapter 20: After School
I want to protect her forever, but I can’t. And that hurts more than a gun shot wound. -Elias
Elias
She walked toward the truck like her legs barely belonged to her.
She looked like she’d been hit by one.
Not physically. no bruises, no limp.
But the way she moved across the campus sidewalk… slow, small, like gravity had
doubled and it was pressing down only on her.
She didn’t see me at first.
I had the truck parked at the end of the drop-off loop, engine idling. Window down.
She scanned the curb, then finally spotted me.
She opened the passenger door without a word. Climbed in.
Closed it gently like even the door didn’t deserve to be disturbed.
I didn’t ask anything right away.
Just turned the key. Let the engine fill the silence.
The radio hummed low. Something acoustic and forgettable.
I waited.
Halfway home, I glanced over. She still hadn’t taken off her backpack.
Her shoulders were hunched.
Hands curled around the seatbelt strap like it was the only thing keeping her together.
I asked about her day.
She answered.
Quiet. Flat. Like the words had already failed her before they left her mouth.
“I didn’t understand half of it.”
I nodded.
“They use big words. I felt stupid.”
“You’re not.”
It came out too fast. Sharper than I meant.
Like I needed her to believe it, even if she couldn’t.
“I couldn’t concentrate.
My legs were shaking the whole time. I didn’t even write anything down.”
I wanted to pull over.
Turn around.
Tell her, Forget it. You don’t need this.
But I didn’t.
“It was your first day,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t cry. Didn’t sigh.
But the silence that followed said enough.
When we got home, I handed her a protein bar from the pantry.
“You survived,” I told her. “That’s step one.”
She nodded. But her eyes never left the floor.
She walked to her room with the same quiet, deliberate steps she used to take when fear was still stitched into her skin.
When the door clicked shut behind her, I leaned against the fridge and exhaled slow.
There are moments, small ones, quiet ones, when I think we’re past the worst of it.
Then days like this remind me: Healing isn’t linear.
She’s still learning how to live.
Still figuring out who she is outside of survival.
And now she’s trying.
In a classroom full of kids who never had to unlearn fear just to sit still.
I’ve never been prouder.
And I’ve never felt so fucking useless.
She doesn’t need someone to carry her anymore.
She needs someone to walk beside her.
To tell her it’s okay to fall. To help her learn how to get back up.
And all I want to do is shield her.
From every confusion.
Every embarrassment.
Every academic word some professor throws like it’s supposed to make sense to everyone.
But I can’t.
I’m not supposed to.
She needs to fall.
To feel it.
To own it.
And I hate that.
Because when she looks that tired, that small…
I want to fix it.
I want to say, Forget school. Stay home. I’ll take care of you forever.
And I could. I would.
But I can’t.
Because she’s not mine to keep in a box.
Not a girl to shelter forever.
Not a child anymore.
And if I keep protecting her from everything…
She’ll never learn how to protect herself.
God, I wish she didn’t have to.
I stood there.
In the kitchen we’ve shared for five years.
Hands useless at my sides.
Heart too full. Too heavy.
And I whispered into the dark “You did good, Liana.”
Even if she couldn’t hear it.
Even if she wouldn’t believe it.
You did good.
Chapter 21: Office Hours
I didn’t know I could be more than a survivor. -Liana
Liana
I almost didn’t go.
I told myself I was just walking past the building.
I told myself I just wanted to see what her door looked like.
But I had my notes in my backpack.
And I knew what time her office hours were.
Tuesday. 2:00 p.m.
I stood outside Room B-104 for five minutes before knocking.
The door was open. Just a crack.
I could hear soft typing, the occasional click of a pen.
I took a breath I didn’t feel.
Then knocked.
“Come in.”
Dr. Bailey looked up from her laptop.
She wasn’t smiling but she never really did.
Her face was always calm. Sharp around the eyes. Serious, but not cold.
“Chen,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
I stepped inside.
Closed the door behind me.
Sat on the edge of the chair in front of her desk.
She didn’t rush me.
Didn’t speak right away.
Just waited.
And somehow, that was worse than being questioned.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing here,” I admitted.
“Sure you do,” she said. “You’re here because you have questions. Or maybe doubts. Or maybe just a need to be seen.”
I stared at the edge of the desk. “I’m not… like the others.”
“In what way?”
“They seem normal.”
Dr. Bailey tilted her head slightly. “You don’t?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know how to study. I don’t know how to talk in class. I get tired just from sitting there.”
I paused.
Then added, softer, “And I don’t think I belong in college.”
She folded her hands. “Why not?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the real answer was something I didn’t want to say out loud.
Because I was broken.
Because I was a charity case.
Because I was just a girl someone had rescued, patched up, and placed in a world I never really earned.
But then she said “Let me ask you something. When you walk into the classroom, what’s the first thing you notice?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“What do you scan for?”
“…People. Where they sit. If they’re loud. If they’re blocking the exit.”
She nodded. “Do you do that in every room?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how unusual that is for most students?”
I looked at her.
She didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious.
“You’re hyper-aware. You pick up on tone, space, tension. You listen more than you speak. That’s observational skill. That’s perception. That’s psychology.”
“But that’s not… academic.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“It’s human. And if there’s one thing psychology teaches us, it’s that being human is messy, inconsistent, and often rooted in things we don’t say out loud.”
Her words settled over me like a warm blanket I didn’t know I needed.
“You think you’re not good enough,” she said. “But I’ve had students with perfect grades and zero self-awareness. I’d take someone like you in a heartbeat.”
I stared at her. “Why?”
“Because you survived something. And now you’re choosing to build something after that. That’s not nothing.”
My throat tightened.
I looked down at my hands.
“I don’t want to be just a survivor anymore,” I whispered.
She didn’t flinch.
“You aren’t.”
I didn’t cry.
But something shifted.
Like the word survivor had finally started to peel off me.
Dr. Bailey pushed a small notepad across the desk.
“Start with this,” she said. “Every day after class, write one thing you noticed. Not about the textbook. About people. What they say. What they don’t.”
I nodded.
“I can do that.”
She smiled, small, but real.
“I know.”
I left the office with the notepad clutched in my hand.
The hallway felt a little brighter.
Not loud. Not easier.
But clearer.
Maybe I wasn’t just making it through college.
Maybe I was starting to take up space.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—
That didn’t scare me.
Chapter 22: The Wrong Stop
It was the first time I felt I’m capable. -Liana
Liana
It was my idea.
I said it out loud.
“I think I want to try taking the bus next time.”
Elias raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue.
Just handed me a transit card, showed me the route, helped me install the app.
No lecture.
Just trust.
And that felt big.
It was just a fifteen-minute ride.
One bus.
No transfers.
I left early. Dressed carefully. Checked the map twice.
I didn’t bring a book. Didn’t listen to music.
I needed to pay attention.
The bus smelled like heat and old vinyl.
I sat near the middle, hands gripping the seat in front of me, eyes locked on the screen showing the stops.
I was glad no one sat next to me.
It was going fine—
Until it wasn’t.
I didn’t press the stop button fast enough.
Too many people were crowded near the door.
I didn’t know how to squeeze through.
Didn’t want to touch anyone. Didn’t want anyone to touch me.
So I stayed still.
And the bus drove past my stop.
Just one block.
That’s all.
But to me, it felt like falling off the edge of a map.
I got off at the next stop, heart pounding.
Turned around too fast.
Looked left, looked right.
None of it looked familiar.
I pulled out my phone.
The GPS spun. The blue dot froze.
It didn’t make sense.
I started walking.
Left. Right. Backtracked.
Everything looked wrong.
And then, the panic hit.
It started low behind my ribs.
Spread cold under my skin.
My hands went numb. My vision blurred.
I stopped on the sidewalk, too close to traffic.
People brushed past.
No one looked.
Which made it worse. Or maybe better.
I couldn’t tell.
I crouched down.
Not crying.
Not yet.
Just breathing too fast. Too loud.
Name three things.
Dr. Bailey’s voice in my memory, calm and practiced.
When you feel like you’re drowning, name three things you can see.
I looked down. Said out loud:
“Shoes.”
“Phone.”
“Road.”
The world didn’t stop spinning.
But it slowed.
Just enough.
I sat on the edge of a planter box.
Closed my eyes.
I didn’t call Elias.
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
Because this was my choice.
To try. To be out here.
To be someone who could get lost without breaking.
It took fifteen more minutes.
Walking back and forth.
Following the little blue dot.
And finally, I saw the campus sign.
My legs ached.
But I found the building.
I walked into Room 203 five minutes late, still breathing like I’d run a marathon.
I didn’t cry.
But when I sat down, my eyes stung.
That afternoon, I didn’t go straight home.
Like every Tuesday, I walked across campus to the faculty building.
Dr. Bailey was at her desk, organized, composed, still typing something on her computer.
When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t ask what happened.
She just said, “You made it.”
I sat down.
My hands were still shaking.
“I got lost,” I whispered.
“And?”
“I thought I was going to fall apart.”
“And?”
“I didn’t.”
She didn’t smile.Didn’t say brave. Didn’t say proud.
But her voice softened. “That’s progress.”
I talked more than usual.
Told her about the bus, the wrong turn, the GPS that didn’t work.
The panic.
She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fix it.
She just listened.
Then she said, “You didn’t get there perfectly. But you got there.”
It stayed with me.
That night, after dinner, I opened my notebook and wrote it down:
I didn’t get there perfectly.
But I got there.
And maybe…
That was good enough, for now.
Chapter 23: Never Too Far
I know I need to let go, but I just can’t. -Elias
Elias
She said she wanted to take the bus.
“I think I’m ready,” she told me. Voice quiet but steady.
Like she was still trying to convince herself.
I didn’t argue.
Just showed her the route on the app.
Walked her through how to check timing.
Gave her the TAP card from my wallet and double-checked that her phone was charged.
Then I watched her leave.
Back straight. Chin lifted. Nervous smile trying to pass for confidence.
She didn’t look back.
I waited five minutes.
Then grabbed my keys.
I told myself I wasn’t following. But I was.
Kept two cars behind the bus the whole way.
Enough distance so she wouldn’t see me.
One eye on the road, the other on the tracker signal synced to my phone.
The bus kept going.
She was supposed to get off at the third stop.
She didn’t.
I could picture her.
Standing. Pausing.
Maybe she saw the crowd and stepped back.
Shrank into herself like she used to.
The doors closed.
The bus pulled away.
She was still on it.
And something in my chest folded in on itself.
It wasn’t pain. Not the kind I could point to.
It was deeper. Heavier.
The kind that settled behind your ribs and waited for permission to break.
I moved.
The truck crawled behind the bus, slow and careful.
I had her location on my phone, the small blue dot drifting further from campus with every second.
Then she got off.
Wrong stop. One block too far.
Should’ve been nothing.
But for her, one block was a cliff edge.
She froze on the sidewalk.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t turn around.
I drove forward a little and then turn around, pulled over, just in case.
Then I saw the look on her face.
I knew that look, how her body curled in on itself when her brain started spinning.
I’d seen it before. Too many times.
And my fingers clenched around the steering wheel so hard I thought it might crack.
I almost got out.
Almost walked across the street and said, “Come on, it’s okay, let’s go home.”
But I didn’t.
Because this was her idea.
Because if I showed up now…
I’d undo everything she was trying to prove to herself.
Still, watching her crouch by the edge of that road, eyes blank, lips moving like she was saying something just to stay grounded.
It was like standing outside a burning house, knowing I couldn’t go in.
I didn’t breathe.
I couldn’t.
Until she started walking again.
The dot moved. One block. Then two. Slow. Measured. Scared.
But she moved.
And I followed, far enough not to be seen, close enough to see her.
Fifteen minutes later, she crossed onto the campus lawn.
I saw her from the truck.
Backpack slouched, head low, legs dragging, but upright.
She was late. Sweaty. Shaken.
But she made it.
And I sat there, still gripping the wheel, throat tight.
I didn’t follow further.
Didn’t let her see me.
Didn’t remind her of the necklace around her neck, the one I gave her on her sixteenth birthday, after a year of never setting foot outside the house alone.
I told her what it was back then.
A gift. But also a safety net.
“There’s a button hidden underneath,” I’d said. “If you’re ever in danger, press it. I’ll come. No matter what.”
She’d nodded. And kept wearing it.
Every day since.
Not only because she thought she’d need it.
But also because she trusted me.
Maybe too much.
Today, she didn’t press it.
And that broke me more than anything.
Not because I wanted her to need me.
Or maybe I do?
But because, for once, she chose not to.
She’s growing.
Leaving the house.
Getting lost.
Finding her way.
And me… I’m supposed to let her.
She’s not fifteen anymore.
She’s not flinching at doorways or hiding under blankets at night.
She’s showing up.
Trying.
But the truth is, I remember who she used to be.
When she first came home with me, she wouldn’t leave the house.
Didn’t set foot past the gate.
Even walking to the mailbox made her freeze.
And now?
She’s taking buses by herself.
Navigating campus.
Getting lost and still showing up.
And I’m proud. I really am.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare the hell out of me.
Because the world isn’t kind. And she’s still too soft for it.
Too good.
Too trusting.
She wears the necklace because I gave it to her.
Because I said it’d keep her safe.
She never questioned it.
Never even took it off.
Sometimes I wonder if she remembers that it’s still there.
That I could find her anywhere.
That I did.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most.
Not her leaving.
Not her growing.
But the fact that she might not always need me watching.
Might not always need me at all.
So no. I didn’t let her go completely. But I’m trying.
Trying to loosen my grip.
Trying to let her live.
But never too far.
Never. Too. Far.
