Page 16

Thirteen

Present

I fold my hands in my lap and watch as Tessa shifts uncomfortably in the chair across from me.

She doesn’t look at me, not directly. Instead, her gaze drifts toward the window, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the armrest. A defense mechanism.

A need to escape, even when there’s nowhere to run.

“You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” I say gently. I let the silence settle between us, nonthreatening and open-ended.

Tessa lets out a slow breath, then a sharp laugh—bitter, mirthless. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know what I’d say.”

I tilt my head. “Start anywhere.”

She clenches her jaw, her fingers tightening against the armrest. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. That’s the worst part. People tell me he was a monster. That I was a prisoner. But it doesn’t feel that way. And I hate myself for it.”

There it is. The conflict knotted inside her, wound so tight it’s strangling her from the inside. I lean forward slightly. “You’re talking about Daniel.”

Her eyes snap to mine, wary. “You say his name like he’s just some guy.”

I nod. “To you, he wasn’t just some guy.”

Tessa swallows, her throat bobbing. She’s testing the waters, waiting to see if I’ll judge her, if I’ll flinch.

I don’t. I hold her gaze, steady and calm.

“He protected me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“From the others. From worse things. He… he made me feel safe.” She scoffs, running a hand through her dark hair.

“God, how messed up is that? I was locked in a goddamn house. I couldn’t leave, couldn’t talk to my family, but at least I had him . So tell me—am I insane?”

“No.” The answer is immediate, firm. “You survived. And when people survive trauma, their minds adapt to protect them. Bonding with him, feeling something for him, that was your mind’s way of making the unlivable… livable.”

Tessa snorts, but her eyes glisten. “Stockholm Syndrome. That’s what they call it, right?”

I hesitate. “That’s one way of looking at it. But labels can be limiting. What you felt, what you feel —it’s real. And it’s complicated. You don’t have to force it into a neat little box.”

She exhales, her posture sagging. “Everyone wants me to be angry. To hate him. But I don’t.”

I nod. “And that scares you.”

“Yeah.” A humorless chuckle. “Because if I don’t hate him, what does that make me?”

“Human.”

Tessa studies me, searching for cracks in my calm. She won’t find any. I’ve spent years navigating the labyrinth of trauma, walking people through their darkest corners without recoiling.

“I think about him all the time,” she admits, voice raw. “I wonder if he’s okay. If he misses me. And I know how fucked up that is, but it doesn’t change anything.”

I let the words settle before responding. “You spent months with him. Your brain was wired to see him as your protector, your lifeline. That doesn’t just disappear because you were rescued.”

Her laugh is shaky. “Rescued. That’s another funny word. I don’t feel rescued. I feel… uprooted. Like someone yanked me out of a world I had adjusted to, and now I don’t fit anywhere.”

The honesty in her voice tugs at something deep in my chest. I lean back, giving her space to breathe. “That’s the thing about survival. It doesn’t end when you escape. You’re still surviving, just in a different way.”

Tessa shifts again, her gaze flickering to the window. “I don’t talk to anyone about this. Not my caseworker, not my parents. They’d never understand.”

I keep my voice gentle. “What would happen if you told them?”

She scoffs. “They’d think I was sick. Broken.”

“Do you think you’re broken?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “I don’t know.”

I watch her for a long moment before speaking. “You survived something unimaginable, Tessa. And you did what you had to do to make it through. That’s not broken—that’s resilience.”

Tessa’s eyes well up, and she looks away quickly, blinking hard. I don’t press. The silence between us stretches, not empty, but full of everything she isn’t ready to say.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “I had a dream about him last night.”

I nod, waiting.

“We were sitting in that house, just talking. Like nothing bad ever happened. And when I woke up, I wanted to go back.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “How do I stop missing him?”

I inhale slowly. “Maybe the question isn’t how to stop, but how to understand it. How to accept that you can feel relief and grief at the same time. That you can be free and still mourn what you lost.”

Tessa looks at me, something fragile in her expression. “What did I lose?”

I meet her gaze. “Certainty. The version of yourself that made sense in that world. And now, you have to rebuild. Piece by piece.”

A single tear slips down her cheek. She brushes it away roughly, like it offends her. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You just did.”

She lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

I smile softly. “That’s what they pay me for.”

For the first time since she walked in, her shoulders ease—just slightly, just enough. She isn’t healed. She isn’t whole. But today, she let herself speak, let herself be seen. And sometimes, that’s the bravest thing of all.

Tessa leaves our session over. And I wonder, what would it be like to let myself be seen? To have my secrets out in the open.

I shake the thought away and plop in the chair behind my desk.

From my bag, I pull a page from his letter and let myself read it. Just one more page.

Fate struck hard and fast. When you arrived, I was…confused. I thought perhaps it was a joke. A test. But when the color in your face drained, I knew it was serendipity working its magic.

Your professionalism and poise had me convinced that you would leave. All the obvious reasons screamed so loudly in the silence.

Ethics, morals, boundaries. You should have left, and you know that. I should have turned you away.

But I didn’t.

And you didn’t.

You stayed.

My heart nearly stopped when you made your decision. I couldn’t breathe. The greatest opportunity was laid at my feet like an offering from the Gods, and like a child on Christmas morning, I felt giddy with anticipation.

You bit your lip when I showed you to your room. The smallest gesture, but so indicative of your mindset.

You let me watch you. I couldn’t tear my eyes from you that night. The show you put on changed me—my desires.

I like watching strangers, there’s a distance—a comfort in that. As if I’m allowed a brief glimpse into their private life—as if I’m special. And as you know, the watching isn’t centered on sexual behaviors alone.

I’m satisfied watching any interaction. Your show caught me off guard. Made my head spin. I had others to visit that night but you captured my attention and held it prisoner.

My heart raced as you looked over the accommodations, the way your eyes scanned the room—floor to ceiling—looking. My breath caught in my lungs when you fixated on the vent near the ceiling, bedside.

I felt caught—like a child, sure your gaze was focused on mine, ready to be chastised. Instead of scolding you praised—you made me feel watched.

It turned my stomach; this new sensation of being seen. It turned me on, took my proclivity to an elevated level.

And then you began. I nearly choked on the breath I held in my throat. You see, there’s one force more powerful than free will.

Lust.

You told me “desires can be dark, shameful and wrong,” but for me, that’s what makes them so right. My chest heaved. My fingers itched to touch you, touch myself, touch skin. Blood rushed in my veins. The sound of it deafening.

That was quite possibly the beginning of the end.

In hindsight, our foundation was built on a fault line.

But, I think that’s where I became excited to share my world with you.

To bring you into the fold. I became hyper-focused on the idea that someone might be interested in sharing my lifestyle with me.

What I’m trying to say is that as we erased lines, I became careless. Less vigilant.

I should have turned away. Respected the ethics and boundaries that existed. I should have done many things that would have altered the course we traveled.

I regret none of it. It was a signal; a beacon in the night that I was not lost in the darkness. That I was where I belong. I couldn’t have predicted your secret just as you didn’t know all of mine.

Robin, that night changed everything for me, and I think it did for you as well.

I find myself staring at the page before me. I’m unraveling a question that’s been haunting me.

Do his walls come down when he thinks of me?

I still remember the first time we met, how I felt like I could breathe when I was around him. How everything seemed to fall into place when he was near. I wanted to believe that he felt the same way, that we were on the same page. But now, months later, I wonder if he ever really let me in.

Does remembering me take him back like it does for me? Back to moments when we were happy, when we were together in a way that felt real, or at least like it could be.

And when he remembers—do his eyes grow dim? Does he shut me out, bury me in his vault like a secret? Or does it make him pause, even just for a moment, and wonder what we could have been?

I remember something from that time. A piece of paper in my pocket, worn with use, faded ink—“I love watching you.”

He’d tucked it in my coat pocket. Let me find it later. It had brought a thrill and a smile.

Does he hide me in the attic of his mind, tucked away like some forgotten talisman, locked in a trunk with all the other things he can’t bear to relive?

Do his walls crumble, even a little, when my name crosses his mind? Or has he built such a fortress around himself that there’s no room for anyone else?

I can’t change the past. I can’t rewrite what’s been written, but I do wonder if, somewhere deep down, he lets me in, just enough to remember me.

A tear drips from my chin onto the page.

My cell vibrates on the desk, startling me. I glance at the screen and catch my former patient—now friend—Nora’s name before it turns off.

Reaching out, I switch the ringer to silent, put the letter in my bag and turn off the desk light.

Like most people, I have a secret, and I’ve become good at hiding it, but he had secrets too.

We all had scars hiding beneath our skin.