Page 102 of Fragile

“Miss Dawson?”

“Or we can look at it in a different way. The idea of art, in whatever form you create it, is to create something unique, that doesn’t have conceptual perfection attached to it. To channel any emotions that you can’t articulate into whatever artistic medium you decide. Studies have shown that it can improve self-esteem, empowerment, and self-discovery. Not to mention, it can significantly reduce stress levels and increase relaxation.”

Another student raises their hand. “How can that compare to something like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy? Studies behind art therapy are miniscule by comparison of the scientific evidence for CBT.”

“Arguably, it can enhance the effects of such a process. Instead of thinking about it replacing a therapy, think of it as enhancing what clients can put into practice, another tool to use in their program.” I step to the side of the podium. “The perfect example is a marine who is suffering with post-traumatic stress and they’re unable to communicate because voicing their emotions feels too raw and overwhelming. Then let’s begin by giving them another medium—”

“But how do you implement evidence-based practices? Surely, that client might think they’re able to avoid talking and not complete the therapy side of CBT or anything similar? Instead, they can just bake a cake, or paint a picture.”

“The opposite, actually. By giving the client another medium to express themselves, you can discuss their work and see what they’ve created with their mind when it wasn’t focused on their trauma, and tap into the emotions and their subconscious that way, bringing them to a sense of realization that theycancommunicate, it just might take some longer to express themselves verbally. I agree that we should still rely on all forms of therapy in order to assist clients with their journeys, but we also need to keep an open mind on how our brains work, especially when dealing with trauma. There’s no one-size-fits-all, but there is enough out there to help everyone.”

“Very nicely debated. Thank you, Miss Dawson.”

I take my seat, striding back to my desk with a sense of confidence I thrive off of. It was a good distraction, until I’m sitting down again, and my phone has no new notifications.

As the professor carries on, bringing up another student to the podium, more debates echo around me, but I’m lost in thoughts about the time I’ve spent with Miles over the last few months and how I’ve seen him relax when baking with me at the shelter. How I’ve seen him embrace yoga classes and even scrapbooking. All of these things are allowing him to express himself in a way that he wouldn’t normally.

Deep down, I think watching Miles grow up without his mom and with a father who was barely there left a lasting mark on me. Even as a kid, I could sense the emotional void in him, something that needed healing, even if I couldn't fully understand it at the time. I didn’t know the weight of what he was going through—I hadn’t lost a parent—but I knew, instinctively, that Miles needed someone to be there for him. Looking back, it might seem naïve to think that movie nights or silly distractions could help someone who was grieving, but maybe that’s exactly what he needed. He needed to look at things from a different perspective and I offered that to him. Maybe all he needed was to escape from his own mind for a little while and to feel that someone cared.

As we've grown up, I've come to realize that, in some way, shape, or form, we've always needed each other. There’s an understanding between us that runs deeper than words, a friendship that’s made us stronger. It’s almost as if our relationship was inevitable, like we were two halves destined to find each other and become a whole. And maybe that is partially wishful thinking because I’ve loved him for so long and so deeply; I never wanted to see a life without him in some way shape or form. If we never progressed into more than friends, I would’ve still loved him and cared for him and wished him a life of happiness. I feel incredibly lucky that everything worked out the way it has.

As if the realization has struck me by lightning, I need to see him. I have to.

“Mr. Lambert?” I ask, raising my hand. “May I be excused? I’m suddenly not feeling well.” I shouldn’t lie, but I have to leave.

His eyebrows draw together as he regards me. “Of course, feel better.”

Before he can finish his sentence, I'm already out of my seat, my hands gripping my textbook so tightly that my knuckles turn white, and my backpack haphazardly slung over one shoulder. My heart races as I push through the crowded hallway, weaving between oblivious students. The campus blurs around me, the only thing on my mind is getting to Miles as fast as I can.

I barely notice the stairs as I take them two at a time, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. By the time I reach his dorm, I'm practically shaking. My hands fumble for the spare key he gave me months ago, as I tap it on the magnetic strip.

As the door swings open, I speed walk toward his door, holding my breath before doing a final swipe of the key to open his dorm room. The moment I see him, lying in his bed, eyes closed, earbuds in, I breathe a sigh of relief. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, his muscular arms resting at his sides, the tension of the day clearly melted away. The usual intensity he carries, both on the football field and around campus, is replaced by a calm stillness. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’d just run a hand through it absentmindedly, and his strong jawline relaxes in sleep. My grip on the textbook loosens as I take him in, letting my breathing regulate again.

My backpack falls from my shoulder, landing to the ground with a thud, alerting him of my presence. His eyes spring open, and the moment they lock onto mine, it feels like the air is sucked out of the room. When he realizes it’s me, the look he gives me is so intense, it could set my entire world on fire. Removing his earbud, he sits up, propping himself on his goodarm. “Hi, baby,” he breathes, his voice low and raspy from sleep, sending a spark tingling down my spine.

“Hi,” I manage to reply, but I’m barely holding myself together under the weight of his gaze.

For a moment, we stay still, taking in every inch of each other. His eyes lock onto mine, and the space between us feels too far, too empty.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice still a rough whisper.

I hesitate, my heart pounding, but the pull is undeniable. Slowly, I step closer, feeling the warmth of his presence drawing me in. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against mine, as he shifts his strong body closer.

The weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, yet I don’t want to look away. “You’re okay?” I ask, concern flickering in my mind.

“Yeah.” He smiles, and I feel my body melt into him. “I am now.” He’s so close that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of his cologne and just him, wrapping around me like a hug. “I was going to text you, but I didn’t want to distract you in class.”

“I’m always going to be distracted when it comes to you.” My voice is surprisingly steady, considering my inside are trembling. “Besides, I couldn’t just sit there in class wondering if you were okay. I had to see you.”

His eyes glisten as he looks at me. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” I reply without hesitation. Gone are the days when I play it cool around him, because everything I feel is right there on my sleeve.

Something shifts in his expression as he reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch gives me instant butterflies, and I can’t help but lean into him more, exhaling a quiet moan. “I doubt that,” he murmurs, his hand lingering against my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my skin.

I close my eyes for a second, enjoying the feel of his touch, the closeness of him. When I open them again, he’s watching me with that same intensity, as if he’s memorizing every detail of my face. “Do you know that I have a favorite freckle of yours?”

My throat suddenly feels thick as I swallow hard. “I did not know that.”

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