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Twenty-Six

They said group therapy might help. That I could benefit from “peer connection.” That sometimes it’s good to “feel less alone.”

I didn’t laugh out loud.

But the irony settled deep in my chest like a bad secret. Because I hadn’t felt alone in weeks.

Not since the dolls. Not since the voices. Not since I gave them names I wasn’t supposed to know.

The room was too white.

White walls. White floor. White chairs. All lined in a careful little circle like a séance no one warned me I’d be part of.

Six people sat quietly. One was already crying. Another stared into space like he was trying to teleport.

I chose a chair. Sat slowly. Kept my hands in my lap.

The lights buzzed overhead, and I buzzed with them.

But it wasn’t the fluorescents making my nerves hum.

It was them.

“You don’t need this,” Sun whispered, his voice soft but too close—like a hot breath across my ear. “We’re your support system now. Not them.”

“They’re going to prod you,” Moon said flatly, standing behind my chair like a phantom. “Try not to bare your throat.”

My pulse ticked against my collarbone.

“It’s okay,” I whispered back, lips barely moving.

“It’s not,” Sun snapped. “You don’t know what they’ll ask.”

“Dawn?” The therapist’s voice was gentle. Her clipboard rested on her thigh like it didn’t matter. “Would you like to share anything with the group?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Good girl,” Sun cooed. “Stay quiet. Let them talk first. Let them think you’re shy, not broken.”

A woman named Lily talked about anxiety.

A man named Greg talked about throwing his phone in the river because he thought it was possessed.

I nodded in all the right places. Practiced being normal. But Sun was pacing. And Moon was watching. And every time someone glanced at me, their voices coiled tighter in my skull.

Then it happened.

“Dawn,” the therapist said again, gently. “I know you’re processing a lot right now. And I want to be mindful. But… Dr. Reynolds mentioned you’ve had a recent stressor.”

She flipped a page.

My chest clenched.

No. Please. Don’t.

The therapist smiled.

“Would you feel comfortable talking about your ex? About Elliot Mendez?”

The name hit like a hammer between my ribs.

My ears buzzed. My body stilled. Something snapped inside me.

“Elliot.” Sun’s voice sounded shattered—no longer soft, but panicked . “That name. That name shouldn’t exist anymore. Sunshine, he hurt you. We will make him pay, we promise.”

Moon didn’t speak. But I felt the cold pulse ripple behind my spine like a predator choosing its moment.

“Say the word,” he said at last. “Say it—and he’ll never draw breath again.”

“I’ll tear him apart,” Sun added, voice breaking. “I’ll burn every piece of him. I’ll?—”

“Stop,” I whispered aloud, too fast, too loud.

Lily flinched.

The therapist blinked.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I just— I don’t want to talk about him.”

Silence.

Everyone nodded. Understanding. Or pretending to.

But the air around me felt like it had warped. Like I’d cracked something that couldn’t be sealed again.

Lily reached out. Offered me the tissue box.

Our fingers brushed.

And I flinched . Not because of her.

Because they screamed.

“Don’t touch her.” Sun’s voice blistered.

“She’s not yours.” Moon’s breath turned to frost in my mind.

The box clattered to the floor.

“I—I’m sorry,” Lily said quickly.

I smiled. Or tried to. My lips moved. I don’t know if anything real came out.

I didn’t remember the rest of the session.

Later, when the circle broke, I didn’t speak. I didn’t make eye contact. The therapist just gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder and said, “It’s okay to take space if you need it, Dawn. Go rest. That was a lot.”

I nodded.

Because I couldn’t say, There are sun and moon spirits in my head, and they want to kill my ex.

My room was cold when I got back. Colder than it should’ve been. The thin blanket on the cot didn’t do much, but I wrapped myself in it anyway and tucked myself into the corner of the bed like I was trying to shrink into the wall.

My knees were tucked to my chest. My cheek pressed into my arm. Silent. Still.

Except… I wasn’t alone.

Sun’s presence hit first, warm and immediate. It spread across my shoulders like sunlight slipping through blinds, comforting and a little too much.

“You did so good, Sunshine,” he murmured. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You were so strong.”

His fingers stroked through my hair with reverence.

“I hate that they said his name. I hate it. But I’m proud of you. So proud.”

Moon settled in quieter. At the edge of the bed, near my feet. His fingers brushed against my ankle, cool and steady like shadow itself had found a place to anchor.

“You shouldn’t have to hear that name,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have had to live with it. Or him.”

My breath hitched.

But I didn’t cry.

Sun’s tone shifted, like he was trying to distract me now—lull me into something softer.

“You know… this kind of thing wouldn’t have happened before. Not like this. Humans used to know better.”

I didn’t respond. My body stayed curled, but I listened.

“They wouldn’t disrespect what was ours. They wouldn’t dare. We were worshipped, you know?” He chuckled softly. “Worshipped.”

Moon exhaled through his nose, the sound dry and unimpressed.

“They feared us.”

“Oh, hush,” Sun replied, smoothing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Maybe both. Worship and fear. Isn’t that how gods always work?”

“We weren’t gods,” Moon said.

Sun’s fingers paused, then resumed with less certainty. “Maybe not capital-G gods. But we were more. Important. Sacred. People used to sing to us. Dance under our light. They gave us offerings. We were part of everything.”

“And then they stopped,” Moon murmured. “They forgot us. Or worse, they remembered just enough to bury us.”

Sun’s voice dropped. “They locked us away.”

“In porcelain,” Moon finished.

They fell silent.

My voice came out barely audible. “But why me?”

Sun leaned in again. His warmth flooded my back.

“Because you didn’t look away.”

His voice was soft but fierce.

“Everyone else does. They see us, they feel us—and they flinch. But you… you looked. You touched. You chose us.”

Moon’s voice followed, lower but no less certain.

“And we saw you.”

“That’s why we’ll protect you,” Sun said. “Why we’ll take care of you. Even if you forget. Even if you break.”

“Especially then,” Moon added.

I didn’t say anything after that.

Because for the first time since getting here, since breaking the dolls, since being swallowed by voices and touch and need?—

I didn’t feel quite so locked up.