It had been three days since the appointment.
I didn't go back to school.
Mostly I stayed in my room. The book on my nightstand never moved. I'd open it sometimes, look down at the page, then lose track of what I was doing. I don't even remember what the book was called. The words blurred together. My head felt full, but not with anything useful.
The pain had eased a little, but not the heaviness in my chest. That stayed. Same with the fog behind my eyes. I kept waiting to feel like myself again, but that never really happened.
When Mom called me into the living room, I already knew it wasn't just about checking in.
Okay. Don't make it worse. Just sit down, listen and lets get through it.
She'd been quiet all morning, which usually meant something was coming.
They were both already there when I stepped in—Mom and Dad.
He was in the chair near the window, still in his work clothes. Cargo pants, long sleeve shirt, work boots still laced tight. He looked like he hadn't even taken a breath since walking through the door.
Mom was on the couch, sitting a little too straight, like she thought it would help.
I sat down across from them. Didn't say anything.
Dad spoke first.
"We've been talking," he said. "And I think it's time we talk with you too."
His voice wasn't sharp but it wasn't soft either. It was the kind that lands a bit heavy and makes you sit up straight even if you don't want to.
He looked straight at me when he said it, and I had to look away.
I flinched and muttered. "Sorry"
"I know this hasn't been easy. I'm not expecting it to magically get better just because we're all in the same room now."
He paused. His hands were laced together and resting on his knee.
"When your mom first told me, I didn't believe her. I thought maybe she misunderstood. Or maybe you were just confused. But then I saw you. And I knew this wasn't something made up or temporary."
He didn't look away.
"And I hate that I didn't see it sooner."
I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with that. I just sat there.
Am I supposed to apologize for that too?
He kept going.
"I'm still figuring this out. I didn't grow up hearing about this stuff. Back then, you dealt with things quietly, or not at all. You didn't talk. You didn't ask questions. You just... pushed it down."
He leaned forward a little.
"But that didn't help anybody. It just made people feel alone."
He let that hang for a second before nodding toward me.
"You're not quiet. Not really. You've been hurting, yeah, but you're here. You're still showing up. That counts for something."
He rubbed the back of his neck, like he didn't want to say the next part.
"I don't know what I'd do in your position. But if it were me... I think I'd be more at peace not trying to fight what's already happening. Even if it scared the hell out of me."
That last part sat there for a while taking up the space. He didn't explain it but just left it where it landed.
It does scare the hell out of me.
My throat felt tight, but not because I disagreed. I just didn't know how to live with something that felt this big.
Mom picked up where he left off. Her voice was quieter.
"You always kept things in," she said. "Even when you were a kid. You'd get sick or scared and act like nothing was wrong."
She looked down, then back up at me.
"I think maybe I made that worse. I didn't always give you room to talk. I thought I was helping by not pushing."
She reached out and rested her hand over mine.
"I love you," she said. "And that's not going to change. Not because of this. Not because of anything."
I looked down at her hand. She was trying not to show it, but her fingers were trembling.
Is mine shaking too?
"You don't have to make it easy for us," she said. "You're our kid. We'll carry what we can. But you have to be honest with us about what you need."
I nodded slowly. Tried to think. Tried to say something that made sense.
If I don't say it now, it's just going to sit inside me forever.
I took a breath that didn't really help and said it before I could talk myself out of it.
"I don't want to keep forcing everything to stay the same," I said. "I don't want to keep taking stuff just to stop what's already happening. I just… I want the pain to stop. I don't want to fight my body anymore."
Neither of them spoke at first.
Dad leaned back and exhaled through his nose. One long breath.
He nodded once.
Mom squeezed my hand gently.
"Alright," she said.
That was all. No dramatic hugs or speeches. Just... alright.
I didn't tell them I was sure. Because I wasn't.
I still wasn't anything. Just tired.
But I was tired of pushing something down that wasn't going away.
And they understood that.
I thought we were done until Mom asked one more question.
"What about school?"
That made me freeze.
Oh God, School...
"You've been gone three days," she said. "And we can't keep you home forever."
I tensed up and she noticed.
"I'm not saying you have to go back tomorrow," she added quickly. "But I am worried."
"Worried about what?"
She looked at me for a second. Then said it.
"Kids talk," she said. "You come back looking or sounding even a little different… people will notice. And not everyone's going to be kind."
She wasn't wrong.
They'll stare. They'll whisper. They'll say things they think I can't hear.
Dad cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.
"I've been thinking about that too," he said. "There's no good way to make it easy. But that doesn't mean we throw you back into it blind."
Mom looked over at him. "You mean Clara?"
He nodded.
"Your aunt's got space," he said. "Still lives in the same state. Different district. She's always said she'd help if we needed it."
Mom picked up from there.
"Just for a while. Not forever. Long enough for you to start fresh."
"Live with her?"
"For a little bit," Dad said. "We looked into schools. Private one near her place. Small classes, uniforms, a lot more structure."
"She can't afford that."
"I can," he said. "We'll handle it."
There was a pause.
"We just want to give you the best shot we can," Mom said. "Somewhere new. Somewhere you don't have to explain anything."
I didn't answer right away.
It felt big, too big, like I was stepping into someone else's life and pretending it fit.
But it didn't feel like a trap.
It felt like... maybe a chance.
"I'll think about it," I said.
They didn't push.
Later that day, we went back to the clinic.
Dr. Serrano raised her eyebrows when she saw us. "Didn't think I'd see you this soon."
I sat down again. Same seat. Mom sat beside me.
"We talked," I said. "I've made a decision."
She leaned in slightly, watching me carefully. "You want to move forward with treatment?"
"No," I said. "I just… I want to stop holding back."
She watched me for a second longer.
"I'll be honest," she said. "Most teenagers in your position decide to hold onto what they know. Stick with what's familiar. It feels easier."
That made something twist in my stomach.
So what does that say about me?
Before I could say anything, Mom jumped in.
"She's made her choice."
There it is again. She.
I didn't look at her. Just stared at the floor.
Still didn't know how I felt about that word. Still not sure I want to claim it.
Dr. Serrano nodded, then opened her tablet.
"Alright," she said. "Let's talk next steps."