Page 261 of Disarm
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling wrung out. My body is heavy and floaty at the same time. The beeping of the monitor is a metronome I can’t ignore.
There’s a soft knock. “One more visitor, if you’re up for it?” Cassie peeks in. Behind her, a familiar figure.
Dr. Kaur.
She looks strange outside her office uniform. No sweater, just a simple blouse and slacks, and a hospital badge clipped to her pocket. Her hair is in a low braid. She looks tired.
She looks relieved. Worried. Very, very present
“Hey,” she says softly, slipping in as Cassie fades out. “Can I sit?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice cracks. “Apparently, the whole gang is here. Might as well complete the set.”
She gives me a small smile and pulls the chair up. “You had a big day,” she says. “Big couple of days, really.”
“Understatement,” I mutter.
We sit in silence for a moment, letting the beeping and the air vent fill it.
“I want to say this first,” she says finally. “I’m very glad you’re alive.”
Tears sting again. “Me too,” I say, which feels… weird, after everything. True and not true simultaneously.
She nods like she hears both parts. “I also want you to know,” she continues, “that this doesn’t erase your progress. It doesn’t send you back to zero. It’s… data. Painful, terrifying data. But still data.”
“Data that says my brain checked the ‘no thanks’ box on living,” I say bitterly.
“Data that says your system reached its limit,” she counters gently. “It was under extraordinary strain. Exam stress, trauma triggers, the death of your abuser, complicated family conversations, future uncertainty. That’s a lot for anyone. For someone with your history, it’s an avalanche.”
I look away.
“If I were grading this, it would be ‘you lasted a remarkably long time under extreme conditions,’ not ‘you failed,’” she adds. “But this is not a class. There is no grade. Only feedback.”
“So, what’s the feedback?” I ask. “Other than ‘no more Ambien in the house’?”
A tiny laugh escapes her lips. “We can add that as a footnote,” she says. “The bigger note is: ‘You need more scaffolding.’Weekly therapy plus outpatient coping plus school plus family stressors isn’t enough right now. You’ve been living at a nine or ten and white-knuckling through. That’s not sustainable.”
“Scaffolding,” I repeat. “Like… what? Inpatient?”
“Possibly a short inpatient stay,” she says. “The hospital team is recommending at least a brief stabilization period on the psychiatric unit once you’re medically cleared. After that, we’re looking at an intensive outpatient program. Three afternoons a week. Group therapy, skills, medication management, and structured support while you’re still living at home.”
My stomach twists. “I can’t just… stop school,” I protest. “Finals…”
“Your life,” she says calmly, “is more important than your finals. Your professors will survive. There are processes for this. Incompletes. Medical leave. Extensions. This is what those systems are for.”
I close my eyes. “I’m going to lose my scholarship,” I whisper. “My whole future…”
“Slow down,” she says. “We don’t know that yet. There are appeal processes. Disability services. Your dad is a lawyer with a very impressive glare. Let’s not pre-fail ten steps in advance.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared,” I admit, the words small and naked. “Of… all of it. Being on the psych unit. Being in groups. Being the guy who ‘tried to…’” I can’t finish the sentence. “Of Miguel looking at me like I’m made of glass forever. Of… what happens if this doesn’t work either?”
Dr. Kaur’s eyes soften. “Of course you’re scared,” she says. “This is scary. It’s also… hopeful, in a weird way. You have a chance to get more help before this becomes a recurring pattern. We’re not meeting you in the morgue. We’re meeting you here.”
That lands like a punch and a hug.
“I don’t want to die,” I whisper, feeling the tears fall, and surprising myself with how true those words feel in thismoment. “I just… wanted it to stop. For a while. The noise. The work. The… constant.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction. “That distinction matters,” she says. “To me. To your treatment team. To Miguel.”
