Page 192 of Disarm
My phone buzzes.
Dad
I just want you to know I’m proud of how you’re handling everything. Let me know if you want to grab lunch this weekend. No pressure.
Older me, pre-all-of-this me, would’ve read it ten times, analyzed the punctuation, and tried to decipher if “everything” secretly meant “your entire life is a mistake, but I love you anyway.”
Now I read it once, feel the little ache, and set the phone face down.
“You okay?” Martin asks, without looking up.
I sigh. “Yeah,” I say. “Just… recalibrating. Again.” I show him the message.
“You don’t have to text him back right away,” he says. “You’re allowed to take the ‘no pressure’ part seriously.”
“Look at you,” I mutter. “Therapist in training.”
“I contain multitudes.” He grins. “Now finish that paragraph so we can go get burritos before my three p.m.”
I flip my phone back over and type a short reply.
Caleb
Thanks. Buried in work, but I appreciate it. Talk soon.
And then, for once, don’t open the message thread again.
I just… go back to work.
One paragraph at a time.
By the timeI’m walking up the hill to Dr. Kaur’s office that afternoon, my brain feels like it’s done three different workouts. Physical exhaustion, mental exhaustion, and emotional exhaustion.
Trifecta.
The counseling building is its usual unthreatening beige. The waiting room smells like peppermint tea and recycled air. I check in, sit in the same chair I always do, and try not to pick my cuticles to bloody shreds.
“Caleb?” Dr. Kaur appears in the doorway, soft sweater, sensible shoes. Her eyes do that quick scan, like she’s taking my vital signs without a stethoscope.
I follow her back. Same office. Same couch. The same plant I’m 90% sure is fake but I don’t have the heart to ask.
“How are you coming into the room today?” she asks once we’ve settled.
I blow out a breath. “Uh… midterms fried, but still functioning? Also, spring break was a lot, but I didn’t spontaneously combust, so we’re calling that a net win.”
Her mouth quirks. “That’s quite a summary. Let’s unpack it. Start with what went better than you expected?”
I blink. That’s not where my brain wanted to go, but okay. “I… spoke up,” I say slowly. “At dinner. When my dad asked Miguel and me not to hold hands in public around his colleagues. I didn’t… fold myself in half and say, ‘whatever you want, Dad.’ I said, ‘no, actually, that sucks.’ And when it got to be too much, I left instead of swallowing it.”
Her brows lift, impressed. “That’s a big shift from what you’ve told me about past patterns,” she says. “How did it feel in the moment?”
“Terrifying,” I admit. “Like I was ruining everything. But also… kind of… good? In a weird, nauseous way. Like my body was going, ‘oh, so this is what a boundary feels like.’”
She nods slowly. “Boundaries typically feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable at first,” she says. “Especially when you’re not used to setting them with people you love. It makes sense that both feelings were there.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I also had a mini freak-out in the bathroom,” I say. “Panic. Brain telling me I was disgusting and selfish and making his life harder for no reason. The usual highlight reel.”
“How did you handle it?” she asks.
