Chapter 23: Therapy & Truth

Maya stood outside the therapist's office, her hand hovering just inches from the polished brass doorknob, the coolness of it catching the light from the window behind her. It was her first session. She should've felt proud—hopeful, even. Instead, her chest felt like it was wrapped in lead.

This was supposed to be a fresh start.

But just as she took a step forward, her mind betrayed her.

She thought of Logan.

The way he used to look at her like he knew the effect he had on her but never needed to prove it. The way his smirk would linger in a room long after he'd left. The way his fingertips once brushed her jaw, murmuring things like "I want to kiss you but I can't" and "You were never just another girl."

God, she hated how easily he still lived inside her.

Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty-two nights of aching sleep.

He had vanished without warning—and she still didn't know if she would ever see him again. Worse, she didn't know what she would do if she did. Would she run to him? Scream? Or cry?

Or would she forgive him?

That question haunted her more than anything else.

She swallowed thickly. Her reflection in the glass panel beside the door stared back at her and she was barely holding it together beneath the surface. She was thriving on paper: passing grades, internship interviews lined up, journal pages full of insights and affirmations. Even Damian was a foreign concept now. His cruel smile and his manipulations were now erased.

Everything in her life was neat again.

So why did it feel so empty?

She closed her eyes and whispered to herself, "Maybe letting go isn't the same as forgetting."

Because forgetting Logan would mean erasing the late-night talks they had, the stolen kisses in campus, the way he once held her like she was both fragile and indestructible.

And she couldn't do that. Not yet.

Not when there was still a part of her that would glance at every tall stranger in the street, praying it was him.

Not when she still dreamed about him coming back.

Back to town. Back to her.

Her hand trembled as it touched the doorknob.

She could still feel him in her life like a half-finished story. But this… this was the first page of a new chapter—one where she came first. Where her healing wasn't attached to an apology that may never come.

With a quiet breath and a chin lifted in grace, Maya turned the knob and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The therapist's office felt warm and safe. A soft sunlight washed the room calmly, the kind of calm Maya hadn't felt in months and the sofa was plush, the kind you could sink into and pretend you weren't falling apart.

Maya sat with her knees tucked under her, her fingers clutched around the edge of a throw pillow like it could feel her presence.

Across from her sat Dr. Nia Hall, a woman with kind eyes. She didn't prod. She simply waited.

That unnerved Maya more than the questions.

"You know," Maya said after a long, breathy pause, "I thought I was better. I walk like I'm fine. I smile. I journal. I tell myself, 'This is healing.'" Her fingers played with a thread on the pillow. "But the truth is, I'm still there."

Dr. Hall tilted her head gently. "Where's there, Maya?"

Maya's lips curved into a sad smile. "With him. On the rooftop. In his arms. In that moment before everything fell apart."

A beat passed. The room didn't flinch. But Maya did.

"I keep trying to rewrite it in my head. As if—if I remember it differently, it won't hurt so damn much." Her voice cracked, and she looked down, blinking fast. "But I can't. I shouldn't."

Dr. Hall leaned in slightly. "Why do you think it hurts so much?"

"Because…" Maya inhaled slowly. "Because I let it happen. All of it."

The words tumbled out like a confession she didn't even know she'd been carrying.

"I knew something was off. I felt it." She looked up with glassy eyes. "There were signs. Little moments where he pulled away, when his eyes drifted somewhere I couldn't follow. I ignored them. I didn't ask questions. I clung to the good because I wanted it. I wanted that kind of love so bad I didn't care if it was real. I always assumed it was because of his past traumas that yielded from his mother's passing and the unrequited love between him and his father"

She laughed bitterly, with a hollow sound. "And when it shattered, I acted like the victim. But the truth? I wasn't just brokenhearted. I was complicit. I chose to look away."

Dr. Hall's voice came soft, a tether in the storm. "You're taking responsibility. That's not the same as blame."

Maya nodded slowly, as if absorbing the difference piece by piece.

"I loved him," she whispered, with a trembling voice. "I think I still do. And that… terrifies me."

Silence fell again.

"But I also know," Maya continued, quieter now, "that love alone isn't enough. Not when trust is fractured. Not when part of you forgets who you are trying to fix someone else."

She leaned her head back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like answers were written in the plaster.

"I came here thinking I'd already healed. But the truth is—I've just been decorating my pain. Dressing it up in productivity and clean sheets. The memory of it is still fresh and I'm still confused. Still in his ways I shouldn't be."

Dr. Hall gave a nod, patient and proud. "That's a powerful truth, Maya."

"I'm tired," Maya admitted, softer than before. "But I don't want to be tired forever."

And in that moment—with the eucalyptus scent settling in her chest and the hush of the room cradling her like a balm—Maya didn't feel better.

But she felt brave.

And that, maybe, was the start.

She sat curled on the edge of the couch, her hands twisted in her lap, a knot of nerves unraveling slowly. Her eyes were guarded, her breath was shallow, but she was there. And that counted for something.

Dr. Hall's voice came gently again, as if coaxing a wild thing out of hiding.

"Maya… when you think of Logan now, what's the first feeling that rises?"

Maya blinked. Once. Twice as her she felt her throat tighten.

"I—" She bit her lip, with a difficulty in voicing it. "I don't know."

Dr. Hall waited, offering silence as invitation.

Maya exhaled shakily. "It used to be… butterflies. That ache you get in your chest when you're about to see someone who makes the world make sense."

She looked down at her hands. "Now? It's like my chest caved in. Like something precious was stolen and I don't know where to look for it anymore."

Dr. Hall's tone stayed even. "Do you feel anger?"

"Yes," Maya whispered, her voice trembling with restraint. "God, yes. But not just at him. At me. For being blind. For falling so fast I didn't check if there was anything to catch me at the bottom."

Her eyes brimmed now, tears trembling on her lashes like dew on a wire.

"Do you miss him?"

The question cracked something open, followed by the shuddering of her breath.

"I miss…" Her voice faltered. "His laugh. The way he looked at me like I was art and gravity at the same time. I miss the way his hands knew how to hold without asking questions."

The tears spilled then—softly and quietly, no wailing or breaking. Just water and grief and memories she hadn't buried deep enough.

"But I don't know if I miss him or the version of him I created in my head. The Logan I believed in."

Dr. Hall reached for the tissue box, sliding it across gently. Maya took one and clutched it tightly.

"And that," she said with a hoarse voice, "hurts more than anything."