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Breakfast food is like my love for you. Available 24/7.

“When it feels safe,” I finally admit.

“And when does it feel safe?”

Images flicker unbidden. Brandon watching me over a syrup-drenched plate of pancakes, his chestnut hair catching the morning light, his gaze warm, his hand resting on my knee, tracing slow, soothing circles. Him ordering appetizers underthe guise of curiosity—when really, he chose them for both of us, quietly lifting the crippling weight of decision, of expectation.

But that didn’t happen for 3 months now. Except for the last one. Kind of.

“I don’t know.”

“What about your best friend?” She leans forward slightly. “You’ve mentioned before that having someone present helps.”

“It helps.” I twist the thread tighter. “But Blake can’t be there all the time.”

“And your boyfriend?”

“He—” My throat closes up, choking on words I can’t say. “That’s different.”

“How so?”

The thread snaps. Because he actually gave a damn. Because he saw through my practiced smiles and pretty lies. Because he refused to let me self-destruct in peace. Because he didn’t let me run, even when I wanted to. Because he made me feel safe in a way I haven’t since I was eight years old, crouched behind a rusty bicycle in my parent’s garage. Because…

“It just is,” I say.

“You don’t feel safe with him?”

“I do. It’s—” I stand abruptly, pacing to her window. The city sprawls below, all sharp angles and glass towers piercing an overcast sky. Bleak and beautiful and untouchable, just like the man I can’t stop thinking about. “Can we talk about something else?”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Anything.” Except how much I miss him. “Work. Gym. The weather.”

“Interesting choices.” Her pen scratches. “All things you can control, or at least predict.”

I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pristine surface. “What’s wrong with wanting control?”

“Nothing inherently.” She sets her pad down. “But sometimes what we think keeps us safe is actually keeping us trapped.”

“I’m not trapped.” But my reflection in the window tells a different story with dark circles under my eyes and collar bones too sharp. At least this way, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not hurting him.

“Aren’t you?” Her voice softens, and I hate the pity I hear there. “We push away what we need most because we’re afraid of what happens if we let it in.”

“I don’t push people away.” The lie tastes bitter. “I just—I have standards.”

“Like maintaining strict control over what you eat? Or keeping emotional distance through contractual relationships?”

“Fine.” I spin away from the window. “Maybe I do. But it’s better than letting them close enough to see?—”

“See what?”

“How fucked up I really am.” My laugh comes out harsh. “I mean, my mother killed herself. My father barely acknowledges my existence. And I can’t even eat a fucking sandwich without?—”

“Those are circumstances, not who you are.” She gestures to the chair I abandoned.

“Right.” I drop back onto the sofa, crossing my legs tight. “Tell that to Brandon.”

“Have you?”

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