Page 27 of Before Dawn

“I’ll handle the cleaning. What’s the lease process?”

“Six-month or one-year lease, then renewal. If you decide to leave, give a month’s notice. Once the deposit is paid, you can start moving in.” She tilted her head. “When are you thinking of moving?”

“Next month.” I exhaled, feeling the weight of reality settle. “Just need to sort out my car and finish packing.”

“That works. Gives you time to get everything in order.”

I tapped the folder against my palm. “I’ll run it by my parents and confirm.”

She stood, signaling the end of our conversation. “Sounds like a plan. Just text or email when you’re ready.”

We exchanged pleasantries, and I stepped outside. Warm air wrapped around me as I paused, absorbing the moment.

I was really doing this. Moving. Starting fresh.

The thought settled in my chest—not heavy, but firm.

First things first—call my parents.

I pulled out my phone and dialed, but they were busy. “We’ll call you back,” my mom said, her voice hurried.

Figures.

Slipping my phone into my bag, I hailed a cab for my nail appointment.

I let the nail tech, Kody, freestyle, and she chose almond-shaped nails with a soft ombré base, yellow floral accents, and gold foil. My toes matched with a delicate floral design, and the end result was stunning. I’d tried convincing Azzy to come, but she wasn’t in the mood.

Afterward, I checked the time and headed to therapy.

Dr. Green and I usually met over Zoom, but since I was in town, I figured an in-person session would be better. I’d been introduced to her through Azzaria, who had stepped back after feeling overwhelmed.

Therapy was something I never thought I’d need. But here I was, sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Green’s office on Eighth Avenue, preparing to lay myself bare once again.

Each session cost three hundred dollars, but thankfully, Azzy and I had the cost covered through our student health insurance. Still, no amount of money could put a price on what it had given me—a lifeline, a place where I could unravel withoutjudgment.

I had a great upbringing, filled with love and support, but even the best foundation wasn’t enough to shield me from the monsters in my mind. I struggled far more than anyone knew. A lot of it stemmed from Joshua—hell, I was pretty sure that was where most of it came from.

For a long time, I thought I was fine. Or at least managing. Until it all unraveled in front of the people I cared about most.

The day my parents, Aurora, and Azzy walked in on me breaking down was just the tip of the iceberg. They found me sobbing uncontrollably, struggling to breathe, consumed by the unbearable weight of my own existence. I wanted to disappear. The thought of enduring another day in my own skin felt impossible.

At first, I didn’t understand what was happening to me. The panic attacks. The overwhelming dread. The constant, racing thoughts that never let me rest. My mind was never quiet. Eventually, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), but even with a name for it, coping wasn’t easy. Some days, the anxiety was so loud in my head that I could hardly think straight. Other days, I felt like a ‘normally’ functioning human being.

I hated how I looked. I hated the way I was treated because of my body, my skin tone, my weight. The world never let me forget that I didn’t fit in. People told me to ignore it—“Don’t let their words affect you.” But how could I not? Every snide remark, every cruel comment about my weight or complexion cut deeper than they realized. It wasn’t just about my looks; it became about who I was at my core.

A memory clawed its way to the surface, sharp and unrelenting.

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, tears streaking down my face, hands gripping the sink until my knuckles turned white. Joshua’s voice rang in my ears, thick with disdain and casual cruelty.

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

“It’s just tough love.”

But it never felt like love. It felt like a slow, deliberate breaking of something inside me. I stared at my reflection, wondering if I would ever see myself as enough.

A sharp inhale pulled me back to the present. I swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in my throat as Dr. Green called me in.

Her name was displayed in crisp white vinyl on the glass door. Inside, the sterile scent of lavender and chamomile filled the air, but the warmth of the room softened its clinical edge. The sunlight poured in through wide windows, reflecting off the shelves lined with books and thriving green plants.

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