Page 195 of here

The bathroom door slams shut. Lock clicks. Knees hit tile. Routine.

The bile should come next. The self-loathing.

I wait. Wait for the familiar urge.

The desperate relief of being emptied out.

But… Nothing.

“What the fuck.”

I should be vomiting, letting guilt and shame pour out of me like they have for the past twenty-one years. But my body’s refusing to follow the script.

Isn’t this just perfect? The one time I actually want to purge, my body decides to go on strike.

The urge fades further, replaced by something else. Something that feels dangerously like hope.

Or—

A soft knock breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “Naomi?”

“I’m fine.” The words come automatically, rehearsed from years of practice.

“You’re not fine.” Brandon’s voice is closer now, right outside the door. “And that’s okay.”

I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. “I can’t even throw up properly.”

“Good.” A soft thud against the door. “Though I gotta say, that’s a weird thing to be upset about.”

“Fuck you.” But there’s no heat in it.

“You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m broken in new and exciting ways?”

“That you’re healing.” His words settle deeper than the pancake. “Your body’s finally realizing it doesn’t need to purge every time something hurts.”

I close my eyes, letting that sink in. He’s right, and I hate it. “When did you become so wise?”

“Around the same time you started teaching me how to feel things again.” A pause. “Though I still think setting fire to evidence in my office probably wasn’t the smartest move.”

“Yeah, that was pretty stupid.”

“Want to help me do it properly? Maybe on the rooftop where we won’t burn the building down?”

I stand up, legs slightly shaky, and unlock the door. Brandon sits cross-legged on the floor, those damn understanding eyes piercing straight through me.

“Only if you make more pancakes.” My voice wavers. “And this time with strawberries.”

He reaches up, taking my hand. “Deal.”

Maybe thisiswhat healing feels like. Messy and unexpected and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you have to jump but not sure if you’ll fly or fall.

“How long have you had these?” I ask, following Brandon back into the office.

“I received them in a letter from my Dad’s former lawyer. They’re just copies, but he must’ve gotten them from someone in the department.”

“You really love me that much?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

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