Page 15

15

MADISON

M y alarm chimes way too loudly when Monday morning rolls around, and I have no desire to stop hitting the snooze button.

If I could stay in my cocoon of blankets all day, I would.

We had our first test of the semester last week in Algebra 111, and I already know good and well that I did terrible.

I drag myself out of bed, padding to the kitchen to start the coffee.

Lyla's already gone, her early shift starting at six, but she left a note on the counter next to an already-prepared travel mug.

Made you coffee. Don't forget to eat something.

And call your advisor about that music internship thing.

Love you, you disaster.

—L

I smile, picking up the mug.

It's still warm, and when I take a sip, it's exactly how I like it—more creamer than coffee, with a hint of cinnamon.

Typical Lyla, taking care of me even when she's running on no sleep herself.

I head to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower before facing the day .

The bathroom is warm, filled with thick steam curling along the mirror and dampening the air. My skin is still flushed from the near-scalding water of the shower, droplets trailing down my arms as I reach for a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself.

I inhale deeply, the scent of lavender soap still clinging to my skin. I try to let the heat soothe the tension coiled deep in my chest.

But it never really leaves.

With slow steps, I move to the sink, my reflection nothing more than a blurred outline in the fogged-up mirror. For a moment, I consider leaving it that way. There's something easier about not seeing myself, about not looking too closely.

But then, with careful fingers, I wipe a small patch of steam away, just enough to see the faint, raised scars across my collarbone and down the left side of my chest.

My stomach twists as I trace them lightly with my fingertips, remembering how they felt when they were fresh—raw and aching, an ugly reminder of the night everything changed.

The night my father's car spun out of control. The night his drunken slur turned to a scream, tires screeching, metal bending like paper. The night I crawled over shattered glass and crumpled steel, the weight of his limp body beside me pressing down on my chest harder than any injury ever could.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palms flat against the counter, forcing the memories back. I won't go there, not today.

Instead, I focus on my breathing.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

My eyes open, locking onto my reflection, into the sharp green of my own gaze.

And then, barely above a whisper, I say the words that feel impossible some days.

"I am allowed to be happy."

My voice is hoarse, raw.

I swallow, my grip on the counter tightening.

"I am allowed to feel safe."

The words crack a little, doubt curling around them like vines, but I say them again .

Again.

Until they don't feel like lies.

Until they don't feel like an impossible wish.

I take one last deep breath, then turn away, grabbing my clothes from the counter.

I tug on a pair of leggings and another oversized sweatshirt, the fabric swallowing me, shielding me the way I always need it to.

But as I pull my damp hair over one shoulder, a thought creeps in, quiet but persistent.

Maybe it's time to call Dr. Martha again.

It's been months since my last session.

I'd told myself I was doing fine, that I didn't need to go anymore.

As long as I kept moving forward, kept functioning, I'd be okay, right?

But maybe functioning isn't enough.

Maybe I want more than just getting by.

I grab my phone from my nightstand, staring down at the screen, at the number I haven't dialed in too long.

Instead of calling, I settle for a text.

Hey, Dr. Martha. I think I'd like to schedule an appointment.

But before I can hit send, I get a text from Lyla, and I swipe out of the thread.