Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I can still see his face as he pulled away, how he cut me with words rather than allowing me to help him. The chaos I used to love about him is becoming something darker, something dangerous, something that reminds me too much of Chelsea’s final days.
But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?
Sitting in this familiar waiting room with silk-covered hands, trying to find the strength to do what needs to be done. Trying to believe that walking away from someone you love can be an act of strength rather than cowardice.
The clock ticks steadily, marking the minutes until my session. Each second feels like another step toward an ending I don’t want but can’t prevent. Because I can’t watch someone else I love destroy themselves. Can’t lose another person to their own demons. Can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.
Progress hurts.
Healing hurts.
Love hurts.
But maybe that’s the point.
“No nitrile today,” Dr. Martinez observes as I settle into my usual spot on her office couch. “The silk ones he gave you—you’re still wearing them.”
It’s not really a question, but I answer anyway. “They feel like … like holding on to something I know I have to let go.” My fingers twist together, silk sliding against silk. “Like the last piece of what we were before everything started falling apart.”
Dr. Martinez lets the silence stretch, giving me space to find words for things I don’t want to face. Her office feels safe—always has, even in my darkest days after Chelsea. But today, that safety makes everything harder somehow. Makes it more real.
“The photo shoot was awful,” I finally say, voice barely above a whisper. “His mother arranged it. Family portraits, society documentation, proof of her son’s suitable relationship.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Except nothing about it felt right. Nothing about it felt real anymore.”
“Tell me about that.” Her voice is gentle but firm, the way it always is when she knows I’m avoiding something harder.
“He was drinking.” The words taste like bourbon and heartbreak. “Not just a glass or two to handle his mother’s antics. Really drinking. Pulling away. Retreating into himself with every shot.” My silk-covered hands clench. “I watched him disappear right in front of me, and all I could think was …”
“Was what?”
“Was that I’ve seen this before.” Tears blur my vision, but don’t fall. “With Chelsea. The way she started pulling away. The way she retreated into herself. The way she … the way she …”
“The way she chose destruction,” Dr. Martinez finishes softly. “And now you’re seeing similar patterns with Lee.”
“Yes.” The admission feels like betrayal somehow. “Except this time, I’m not the naive girl who didn’t see it coming. This time, I know the signs. This time, I understand what watching someone spiral looks like.” I look down at my gloved hands. “This time, I have to be strong enough to walk away before …”
“Before?”
“Before I lose someone else I love. And then myself in the reckoning of it. I can’t be that girl again. I won’t be that girl again. But how can I face life after him?”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with truth and pain and everything I’ve been afraid to admit.
“Tell me about his drinking,” Dr. Martinez says after I’ve collected myself. “How it’s changed things between you.”
“It’s not just the amount, though that’s getting worse.” My fingers trace the edges of my gloves, finding comfort in their familiar silk. “It’s how he uses it now. Not for parties or social events, but to disappear. To hide from his family’s expectations. To drown whatever demons he’s fighting. And worse, I realized he does the same thing with sex, and it’s making me question every kiss, every touch. He’s using it all to hide himself away.”
“Like Chelsea used isolation,” she observes quietly. “To hide her pain. Or when that didn’t work, perfectionism so no one could see the cracks.”
“Yes.” The parallel hits hard. “Except Lee uses bourbon instead of silence. Chaos instead of withdrawal. The result is the same—watching someone slip away piece by piece while pretending everything’s fine.”
Dr. Martinez lets that sink in before asking, “And how are you handling that? Seeing these similarities?”
A laugh escapes me, but it sounds more like a sob. “I’m wearing silk gloves he bought me while planning to walk away from him. How do you think I’m handling it?”
“With more strength than you’re giving yourself credit for,” she says firmly. “You recognize the patterns now. You understand what’s happening. That’s growth, Salem.”
“Is it growth?” I look up at her, needing answers I know she can’t give. “Or is it just history repeating itself? Me failing to save someone else I love?”
“You couldn’t save Chelsea,” she reminds me gently. “Just like you can’t save Lee. That’s not failure—that’s understanding that people have to fight some battles for themselves.”