Page 115 of Resisting Blue

He doesn't react. "I'm not insisting."

I scoff, "That's a terrible idea. They'll hate this. They'll hate you. They'll shut everything down."

He agrees, "Possibly. Or it could provide context and support."

I snap, "My father is never going to come to therapy. He isn't weak."

His voice is too calm. "It doesn't make him weak."

I stand abruptly, pacing a few steps before stopping. My skin tightens until I think it might suffocate me. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"Then help me understand."

I turn back to him, breath shaking. "You bring them in, and suddenly this isn't about me anymore. It's about control and who's to blame."

"Who holds that burden now, Blue?"

I freeze.

Me.

Always me.

I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "I don't want to lose what little autonomy I have."

"I hear you. And you won't. We would only proceed with your consent. And at your pace."

I stare at the floor. "I need time."

"That's okay," he says.

The session winds down after that. He gives me grounding exercises, mentions alternative coping strategies, and makes notes I pretend not to notice.

When the time is up, I stand slowly. My body feels wrung out but lighter in a way that doesn't make sense to me. I pause at the door. "You're not mad at me?"

"No," he says.

"Disappointed?"

"Concerned, but I will never get mad at you over what we discuss in therapy," he declares.

I blink hard, locked in my stance.

He gives a small smile. "We'll continue next week."

I hesitate, then ask, "You're not going to disappear?"

"I'm here."

I leave with that echoing in my chest, unsure whether it's a promise or a boundary, but clinging to it all the same.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Red

The door closes behind her with a muted click, precise and final, and I remain seated where I was when she stood. My posture's composed, my hands folded on the desk, waiting for her to turn around and come back in.

Where are you, Bluebird?