Page 128 of The Misfit

The morning sunstreams through the coffee shop windows, warming the bare hands I have wrapped around my cup. Sometimes I still reach for gloves out of habit, still feel that urge to create barriers between myself and the world. But I’m learning. Growing. Healing.

The sanitizer sits beside my cup—some habits are worth keeping, after all. Dr. Martinez says it’s not about eliminating all patterns, just finding the ones that help rather than hinder. Like cleaning things that actually need cleaning instead of obsessing over imagined contamination. Like measuring spaces that actually matter instead of letting fear dictate distance.

My textbooks align perfectly on the table—another pattern I’ve kept. There’s comfort in order, in precision, in having certain things exactly where they belong. But now I can handle when things shift slightly. Can breathe through minor chaos. Can exist in a world that isn’t perfectly controlled.

Progress looks different than I expected. It’s not about beingnormalorfixedor whatever I used to think I needed to be. It’s about finding a balance between the patterns that help and the ones that hurt.

Like the gloves.

Like the constant counting.

Like the need to control everything and everyone around me.

My fingers trace patterns in the condensation on my cup, feeling the cool moisture directly against my skin. Three months ago, this would have sent me into a panic.

Now it just feels real.Present.Part of existing in a world that can’t always be perfectly ordered. The coffee shop bustles around me, people moving in their usual morning routines. I notice them differently now—not as threats to my careful order but as part of the natural chaos of life. Some of them nod as they pass, recognizing me as a regular. The barista already knows my order, and some of the other regulars keep my space open for me.

I’ve carved out my own place here, found my own way to exist in the messy reality of life. Not perfect. Not normal. But real. Present. Whole in my own way.

Even if sometimes I still miss him.

Even if sometimes I wonder if he’s found his own healing.

Even if sometimes I hope …

But that’s a pattern I’m trying to break—waiting for someone else to complete. I’m learning to be complete on my own, to find peace in my own company, to create order that comes from strength rather than fear.

Even if my heart still counts the days since I last saw him.

Someone slides into the chair across from me, and I start to say my usual “I’m sorry, this seat is taken” when I look up. The words die in my throat. Because it’s Lee, and he looks… different. Good different. Healthy different. The kind of different that steals my breath and makes my world tilt on its axis.

He’s wearing a crisp blue button-down that brings out the storm in his eyes, the collar open and undone, his hair neat but still slightly rebellious. But it’s more than his appearance—there’s a steadiness to him now, a quiet confidence that has nothing to do with his usual carefully constructed charm.

“Hi,” he says simply, and even his voice is different. Clearer. More present. More real than I’ve ever heard it.

I realize I’m staring, my bare hands frozen around my cup, my perfectly practiced composure scattering like sugar packets in a breeze. This is Lee, but not the Lee I last saw on those cliffs three months ago. Not the Lee drowning himself in bourbon and self-hatred. Not the Lee who needed saving from himself.

This is someone new. Someone solid. Someone who looks at me with eyes that are clear and focused and absolutely terrifying in their intensity.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” he observes softly but doesn’t reach for my hands. Doesn’t try to touch. Doesn’t do anything except notice, like he always has.

“You’re not drinking,” I counter, the words coming out barely above a whisper.

His smile is different, too—real, not practiced. Gentle, not performing. “Ninety-three days sober. Not that I’m counting or anything.”

But he is counting; I can tell. The same way I still count some things, still need some patterns, still find comfort in certain orders. The difference is in how we carry those numbers now—not as chains but as markers of progress.

“Lee—” I start, but he shakes his head.

“Let me? Please? I’ve practiced this speech about a hundred times, and if I don’t get it out now, I might lose my nerve.”

I nod, my hands tightening around my cup, my world narrowing to this moment, this man, this version of us that feels simultaneously familiar and completely new.

The morning sun catches in his hair, highlighting strands of gold I never noticed before. Or maybe I just never let myself notice, too busy maintaining walls and counting spaces and keeping careful distance.

But now …

Now, he sits across from me, solid and present and real.

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