The Almosts
He returned the next week. And the week after. He sat. He listened. But he never let her in. Every offer she made—breathing techniques, journaling, medication—he flinched from like she was handing him blades.
"You're not alone," she said once.
"Then why does it feel like I am?"
She didn't answer. She just looked at him like he was a puzzle missing its own edge. He wondered if she thought he could be put together again, and if so, what picture would appear.
Sometimes, at night, he pressed his forehead to the window and watched strangers talk to each other on the sidewalk. Laughing. Living. Not broken. He wanted to be like that, but wanting felt like betrayal—like pretending he hadn't spent years becoming what he was.
He told her once, "I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid that this is what living is."
Dr. Lennox just nodded. She didn't try to fix it, and that made him want to come back.
His world didn't grow, but it shifted. A breath longer held. A minute more out of bed. Progress, unspoken and uneven.