Page 40

39

ALESSIA

3 months later

T hree months. It’s been three months since everything changed. Since I lost Nonna, since I was taken hostage, since I felt like my entire world was ripped apart and scattered into so many pieces I didn’t know how to pick them up. But somehow, here I am, still standing, still breathing, still putting one foot in front of the other.

I run my fingers along the spine of my notebook, the one I bring to every session with Katherine. It’s filled with scribbles and notes, the messy handwriting a mix of my thoughts and the things I don’t know how to say out loud. I flip through it, letting my gaze skim over the words. Words like grief and anger , fear and strength . Words that feel like they belong to someone else, someone who’s still lost in the dark. But they’re mine. They’re mine, and I’m learning to live with them.

I glance at the clock on the wall of Katherine’s office. It’s almost time to leave. I’ve been coming here every week, sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Romiro by my side, his hand squeezing mine, his presence a steady anchor in the storm. Sometimes with Mara and Valentina, when the weight of our shared experience feels too heavy to bear alone.

At first, it was hard—harder than I thought it would be. I remember the first sessions, how I felt like I was pulling teeth just to get a single word out of myself. How my chest would tighten, my throat closing up like I was choking. The panic attacks were relentless then, hitting me like waves crashing against rocks, breaking me down, piece by piece. I felt like I was suffocating, like I was trapped in a cage with no way out.

But now… now it’s different. The attacks have lessened, their grip on me loosening like a rope being slowly unwound. I still feel the fear sometimes, still feel the anxiety creeping up my spine, but I know how to manage it now. I know how to breathe through it, how to find my footing when everything feels like it’s slipping away. Katherine taught me that—taught me how to recognize the signs, how to ground myself when the world feels like it’s spinning too fast.

I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, feeling my heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm. I close my notebook and slide it into my bag. Today’s session was hard—talking about Nonna, about what she meant to me, about how her loss still feels like a gaping wound in my chest. But I’m learning to live with it, to carry the grief with me without letting it swallow me whole.

Katherine smiles at me from across the room, her eyes warm, understanding. “You did good today, Alessia,” she says softly. “You’re making progress.”

I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’m trying,” I reply, my voice steady, but there’s still a hint of uncertainty there. “It feels… better, sometimes. Lighter.”

She nods, her smile widening just a little. “That’s all we can ask for,” she says. “One step at a time.”

I nod again, feeling a flicker of something like hope in my chest. One step at a time. That’s been my mantra these past few months. Just keep moving forward, even if it’s just a small step, even if it feels like I’m barely moving at all.

I stand up, grabbing my bag, and Katherine walks me to the door. “Remember to take care of yourself,” she says. “And if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

“I will,” I promise, and I mean it. I’ve come to rely on these sessions more than I ever thought I would. They’ve become a lifeline, a way to keep my head above water. I step out into the hallway, taking a deep breath, feeling the cool air hit my face. It feels good, refreshing, like a small reminder that I’m still here, still alive.

I head out of the building, into the bustling streets of the city. The sun is shining, the sky a bright, clear blue. I pull my jacket tighter around me, feeling the crisp air against my skin. I’ve got a shift at the hospital in an hour, and I feel a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in my chest. I’ve been able to return to my residency, to throw myself back into the work that I love, the work that makes me feel like I’m making a difference.

I walk down the street, weaving through the crowd, feeling the familiar rhythm of the city around me. I used to hate the noise, the constant movement, the way it never seemed to stop. But now, it feels comforting, like a heartbeat, a steady pulse that keeps me grounded. I reach the hospital, pushing through the doors, nodding to a few nurses as I make my way to the locker room. I slip into my scrubs, tying my hair back into a tight bun, looking at myself in the mirror.

I look… different. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something in my eyes, something that wasn’t there before. A softness, maybe, or a strength I didn’t know I had. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and head out onto the floor.

The hospital is buzzing with activity, patients and doctors and nurses moving in every direction. I make my way to the board, checking it for my assignments. A few check-ups, a discharge, a new admission. It’s a busy day, but I’m ready for it. I feel a surge of energy, a determination to prove to myself that I can do this, that I’m not broken, that I’m still the same Alessia I’ve always been.

I move through my rounds, checking on patients, updating charts, listening to heartbeats and checking vitals. I feel the familiar rhythm of the work, the way it pulls me in, focuses my mind, pushes everything else to the background. I feel… almost normal, almost like myself again.

I finish up with a patient, a little girl with a broken arm, and head back to the nurse’s station to update her chart. As I’m writing, I hear a voice behind me, and I turn to see Dr. Patel, one of the senior residents, looking at me with a smile.

“Hi, Dr. Visconti,” she says. “How’s it going?”

I smile back, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “It’s good,” I say. “Busy, but good.”

She nods, glancing at the chart in my hand. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing great since you came back,” she says. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you’re handling it well. Just wanted you to know that.”

I feel a flush of pride, a small, satisfied smile spreading across my face. “Thank you,” I say, my voice a little steadier, a little stronger. “That means a lot.”

She nods, giving me a small pat on the shoulder before heading off. I turn back to my chart, feeling a sense of accomplishment, a sense that I might just be on the right track.

The rest of the shift passes quickly, a blur of patients and paperwork and the steady hum of the hospital around me. When my shift finally ends, I head to the locker room, changing out of my scrubs, feeling the exhaustion settle in. But it’s a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes from knowing you’ve done something worthwhile, something that matters.

I step out into the cool evening air, my breath forming small puffs of mist in front of me. I pull my coat tighter around me, feeling the chill seep through, but I don’t mind. I feel… content. Not happy, not yet, but content. I start walking toward Romiro’s apartment, knowing he’ll be waiting for me, that he’ll have dinner ready, that he’ll be there with that steady presence that’s become my anchor.

When I get to his building, I take the elevator up, my heart beating a little faster as I approach his door. I don’t know why, but I feel a sense of anticipation, like I’m coming home, like I’m stepping into something safe, something warm. The elevator doors slide open and he’s standing there waiting for me.

“Hey, Red,” he says, pulling me into his arms, holding me tight. “How was work?”

I lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, feeling his steady heartbeat under my cheek. “It was good,” I say softly. “Really good.”

He pulls back, looking at me, his eyes searching mine. “You look… different,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Lighter.”

I nod, feeling that flicker of hope again, that small, fragile flame that’s been growing inside me. “I think I am,” I whisper.

He smiles, a soft, loving smile that makes my heart flutter in my chest. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Dinner’s ready. Your favorite.”

We sit down at the small table, and he serves me a plate of pasta, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the air. I take a bite, savoring the familiar taste, feeling a sense of comfort, of home.

“So,” he says, watching me, his eyes bright. “How’s Katherine been?”

I shrug, taking another bite. “She’s good,” I say. “It’s… it’s helping, I think. I’m starting to feel…better.”

He nods, his smile widening. “I’m glad,” he says. “I knew you could do it.”

I feel a surge of affection for him, a warmth spreading through my chest. “I’m not there yet,” I say softly. “But I’m getting closer.”

He reaches across the table, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently. “One step at a time,” he says, echoing the words Katherine has said several times.

I smile, feeling a sense of peace settle over me, a sense of calm I haven’t felt in so long. “Yeah,” I whisper. “One step at a time.”

We finish dinner, and he pulls me onto the couch, his arm around my shoulders, holding me close. We sit there in the quiet, the city humming outside the window, the light from the streetlamp casting soft shadows on the walls. I lean into him, feeling his warmth, his steady presence, and for the first time in months, I feel… okay. Not perfect, not whole, but okay.

I know there’s still a long road ahead, still so much to work through, so much to heal. But I also know I’m not alone. I have Romiro, I have Katherine, I have my friends. And I have myself. I have my strength, my resilience, my determination to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.

I close my eyes, feeling his arms around me, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and I feel a sense of peace, a sense of hope.

One step at a time. One breath at a time.