Page 25 of Escape

The others never make me feel like this. That’s the point. It’s why I’ve been doing it—to avoid this, to keep things simple andcontrolled. Because when it’s just strangers, it’s easy to walk away. There’s no mess, no expectations, no risk of getting hurt.

But last night wasn’t easy.

I stop at a zebra crossing, the red light glaring down at me as cars rush by. My stomach twists, and I clutch the strap of my bag tighter, the leather biting into my palm.

I told him we should forget it happened, and he agreed. But the way he looked at me—like he was trying to say something he couldn’t put into words—it’s been haunting me since I left the house.

The light changes, and I step into the zebra crossing, the knot in my chest tightening with every step.

By the time I reach the therapist’s office, my palms are clammy, and my heart is racing. I stand outside the door for a moment, staring at the small plaque with the name I can’t seem to focus on.

I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say.

I’m not here because of Owen, not really. This is about everything—the landslide, the driver, the guilt that’s been chewing away at me for weeks. But the tangle of emotions about last night, about him, feels like it’s tied up in all of it, one big, messy knot I can’t figure out how to unravel.

With a deep breath, I push open the door and step inside. The waiting room is small, cosy, with a faint smell of lavender in theair. A woman at the desk smiles at me, her voice soft as she asks my name and checks me in.

“Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the row of chairs along the wall.

I nod, my legs moving automatically toward the nearest chair. My hands twist together in my lap as I stare at the patterned carpet, my mind racing.

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to talk about everything without falling apart, without letting everything I’ve been holding in spill out all at once.

But maybe that’s why I’m here.

I glance up as the door to the office opens, a calm-looking woman with kind eyes stepping out and calling my name.

I take another deep breath, standing on shaky legs. It’s time to start figuring this out.

The office is warm and quiet, with a faint scent of citrus in the air. Angelica, my therapist directs me to the sofa. I settle onto the edge, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, while she takes a seat in an armchair opposite me.

She offers me a small smile, her tone gentle but firm. “Take your time, Mel. Start wherever feels right for you.”

I stare at my hands, my fingers twisting the edge of my sleeve as I try to find the words. My throat is dry, but I force myself to speak.

“I don’t really know where to start,” I admit, quieter than I intended.

“That’s alright,” she says. “Why don’t we start with why you’re here today?”

I glance up at her, then quickly look away, focusing on the faint pattern in the rug beneath my feet. The words hover anxiously on the edge of my tongue.

“There was... an incident,” I begin, my voice halting. “I was overseas for work, and there was a landslide. The truck I was in got swept off the road.”

Her expression doesn’t change—no shock, no pity. She just nods, her attention fully on me, like what I’m saying matters.

“It was bad,” I continue, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my sleeve. “The driver... he didn’t make it. And one of my colleagues was seriously injured.”

Her nod is slow, encouraging. “That sounds like a very traumatic experience.”

I let out a shaky breath. “It was. But at the time, I just... I got through it, you know? Did what I had to do.”

Her pen moves softly over her notebook, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s after I got back that everything started feeling... off,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “Like, I can’t settle. I can’t stop moving, can’t stop... avoiding.”

“Avoiding?” she asks, her voice soft.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I’ve been... going out a lot. Seeing guys, just random hookups. And I know it’s stupid, and it doesn’t even make me feel better. But I keep doing it anyway, like I’m trying to... I don’t know.”

---