Page 11 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

RavenMad:You can cancel. Chuck a sickie. No worries.

Londyn83:I'm going through with it. It's decided.

There. Done.

The decision settles into my bones. Not with the lightness of excitement but with the solid weight of determination. This isn't about butterflies or romance. This is about reclamation.

Moving forward is always uncomfortable. My old therapist, who was compassionate and wise beyond her years, would remind me of this constantly.

"Lean into the discomfort. That's where growth happens."

Tonight, I'll lean so far into it I might fall on my face. I'll sit across from Marcus at the Italian restaurant I picked—the one with two exits and a clear path out—and I'll make conversation. I'll smile while calculating how quickly I can reach my pepper spray or taser if things go south.

But that shouldn't happen because I've vetted Marcus as much as possible. I stalked all of his socials and even paid for a background check. He mostly posts pictures of his dog andhe had one unpaid parking ticket during his college years. Otherwise, he seems like an average guy with no red flags.

The date won't be perfect, but it will be a step. One trembling, terrified step toward the woman I'm trying to become.

Chapter 4

LONDYN

I FINISH MY WORK FOR the day, clock out, and then gather my things. As I navigate the cubicles toward the exit, I can't stop thinking about Marcus. Will his photos match how he looks in person? Will our conversation be awkward? Do I even have anything to talk about? Of course, I need to step out of my comfort zone eventually. But is tonight the best night?

When I reach the elevators, Josh is waiting for one to arrive. He's playing a game on his phone and the 8-bit music echoes through the empty hallway. I stop several feet behind him, hoping he won't notice me, but my sneakers squeak on the tile.

He glances over his shoulder. "Oh, hey. I saw you working on the Abbasi files earlier. I heard he was asking a million questions about Q-one again."

"Yeah," I manage, noting how his tall frame seems to fill more of the hallway than it should. His button-down shirt is wrinkled like he slept in it, and there's a coffee stain near the pocket. "He's... thorough."

Josh turns fully toward me, pocketing his phone. "Tell me about it. Last month he wanted me to break down every single—"

The elevator dings, cutting him off. As the doors slide open, another man from a different office approaches. I've seen the guy in passing but don't know his name. He's equally tall, equally male, equally capable of trapping me. He enters the elevator first, looking like he has places to be and doesn't think about others much.

"Going down?" Josh asks, flashing me a friendly smile and holding the door with one arm while gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.

My throat constricts. The elevator suddenly looks tiny, like a metal box designed only to hold me captive with two men. I've worked with Josh for months and he's just a nerdy guy who loves his girlfriend, but I'm still not comfortable being in that elevator with him or any man.

"Actually," I say, taking a step backward, "I just remembered I left something on my desk. You go ahead."

Josh's eyebrows lift slightly, but he shrugs. "Alright. See yah."

The doors close, and I'm alone in the hallway. I wait, counting to sixty twice. When I'm certain Josh is long gone, I press the call button. This time, when the doors open to reveal an empty elevator, I step inside and finally exhale.

The subway ride and then walk home from work feels longer today. I climb the stairs from the 145th Street station and turn onto St. Nicholas Avenue, passing the corner market where the owner always nods but never speaks. The familiar climb up the hill feels steeper, my footsteps echoing against brownstone stoops where conversations drift through the evening air in three different languages. The fire escapes of older apartment buildings create geometric shadows against brick facades, and warm light spills from bodegas and laundromats. But the neighborhood's embrace can't reach me. All of it feels muffled, like I'm walking through the world wrapped in gauze.

I know I decided on going through with the date, but I'm scared.

Am I really ready for this? My trauma-brain is a pretty big barrier. Even if things go well with Marcus, will I only have a huge freak-out if he just happens to brush my arm? Or stands too close?

I can't even think about kissing or foreplay or sex. Just trusting a man enough to give me a hug seems impossible. My mind has fallen into an echo chamber and I don't know what the right decision is, even if I do want to reclaim myself and my life.

I continue on my way home, getting lost in my spiderweb thoughts. I'm closing in on my block, when something creeps in—that familiar prickle along my spine that whispersyou're being watched.

No.Stop it.

I am not being watched.

I'm only triggered from yesterday and the memories that bubbled to the surface. My body is running old scripts, seeing danger in empty theaters.

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