~~Elena~~
I spend the rest of the weekend in Kat's company. She does not give me room to overthink, and for that I am grateful. On Sunday afternoon, she finally leaves, hugging me tightly at the door and reminding me to call her if I need anything.
The apartment feels different the moment she is gone.
Too quiet.
If Mum lived close by, I would have packed a small bag and gone to stay with her for a few days. But distance is what it is, and I am not a child anymore. I have to handle things on my own.
Still, I do not feel as broken as I did yesterday.
I busy myself with small tasks around the house. I change the sheets. I do laundry. I clean the kitchen counters even though they are already clean. I organize things that do not need organizing.
Anything to keep my mind from wandering.
By the time I am done, evening has already settled in. I drag myself to bed even though it is still early. I need rest.
~~~~~
The sound of my alarm pulls me out of sleep the next morning. I groan and blindly reach for it on the bedside table before silencing it.
I sit up slowly and rub my face.
I change into black leggings and a fitted grey long sleeve running top, tying my hair into a high ponytail before stepping outside for a morning run.
The air is cool and crisp. My lungs burn slightly as I jog, but it feels good. It clears my head. It gives me something else to focus on besides my memories and fears.
By the time I return home, sweat clings to my skin and my mind feels lighter.
After a quick shower, I put on a beige blouse and dark trousers for work. I pack my breakfast into a small container and grab my bag before locking the door behind me.
Today I only have two appointments. One at ten. The other in the afternoon. Mondays are rarely busy and that alone eases some of the tension in my chest.
At exactly ten, seven year old Sarah walks in with her aunt.
Sarah lost both her parents in a car accident three months ago. She was the only survivor.
Situations like hers make my own problems feel small. Insignificant.
This is her first session with me. Like most children who walk into my office for the first time, she does not talk much. She sits quietly and chooses to draw instead.
I do not push her.
Healing cannot be forced.
She draws a house. A sun. Three stick figures standing together.
Then she scribbles over two of them.
I feel my throat tighten but I say nothing. I let her draw.
In time, she will speak.
They always do.
By afternoon, I have my second session with Dylan. I saw him last Friday as well. He's still struggling with his parent's divorce, but today he's more responsive.
When he leaves, my workday is officially over.
It is around three thirty.
Normally, I stay back for a few hours to go over notes or read. But today, I do not want to risk it.
I do not want him showing up here again. I do not want to hear another calm confession about another life taken.
So I gather my things and leave the office.
~~~~~~
I head toward my favorite coffee shop instead. It is warm inside, the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon wrapping around me the moment I step in. The low hum of conversations and the soft clatter of cups against saucers feels comforting.
I order a latte and settle into my usual corner seat near the window.
I pull out my laptop and notebook. Since starting my master's in child psycology, most of my coursework is done online. I cannot physically attend classes all the time because of work, so I rely on recorded lectures, virtual discussions, and endless reading materials.
Today I need to review a module on trauma informed care for children.
I plug in my earphones and replay part of a recorded lecture.
It is ironic how easily that word comes up in my academic world when lately, I am not even sure what safety feels like in my own life.
I shake off the thought and continue typing. I open an online discussion board and respond to two classmates who shared case reflections. I attach a short paper I had been working on last week and upload it before the deadline.
As time quickly passes and the evening approaches, I finally close my laptop, gather my things and slide them into my bag before standing up to leave.
The sky outside has turned a dull grey. Heavy clouds hang low, threatening. It looks like it is going to rain.
The thought barely settles in my mind before the first drop falls.
Then another and within seconds, the sky opens.
I curse under my breath. My jacket is in the car.
Clutching my bag close to my chest, I rush out of the coffee shop and into the downpour. The rain is cold and relentless. By the time I reach my car, my blouse clings to my skin and my hair is damp, strands sticking to my cheeks.
I unlock the door quickly and slide inside, breathing hard.
Rain pounds against the windshield as I start the engine.
The drive to my apartment complex takes less than forty minutes, but the storm only grows heavier.
I park, grab my bag and make a short dash to the building entrance. The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks and wet hair framing my face.
When the doors slide open, the hallway is silent.
I walk to my apartment, push my key into the lock and twist the keys to open it.
I step inside and flick on the lights.
Shutting the door behind me, I bend slightly to remove my wet shoes, placing them neatly by the wall.
The rain continues to drum against the windows.
I straighten, and my breath is knocked out of my lungs.
He is standing in front of the window, his back facing me but I can somehow easily tell that it is him.
"You…" The word leaves me in a broken whisper.