Page 106 of Teach Me to Fly

“They’ll wait until you’re ready to answer.” He pauses. “You get to set the pace, Angel.”

The way he says that makes me feel like for once, I’m not at the mercy of what’s been done to me. I stare out the window noticing how peaceful Marlow looks this morning.

“By the way…” He clears his throat. “I asked my dad to push opening night by two weeks.”

My head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

“There were other reasons,” he says quickly. “The crew needed time to rework lighting, and a few costumes weren’t ready. But I also told him you needed space, after everything that happened.”

The air shifts in my lungs, expanding and tightening at once. I was planning to step down from my role as Swan Queen and let Wendy have it. I don’t want to let Imperium and Reign’s family down, but I know that if I went out there and performed right now, I’d ruin the whole thing.

“Was he mad?” I ask.

He shrugs, eyes still on the road. “No. But even if he was, it wasn’t up for discussion.”

I look down at my lap again, twisting my fingers. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’d push the whole goddamn world back if it gave you time to breathe.”

We pullinto the tiny private parking lot of the wellness clinic. The building is old stone and glass, with a slate sign at the front that says Briar Hill Therapy Centre.My stomach lurches as I stare up at it, and my heart picks up speed.

Reign parks the car and turns to look at me, one arm resting on the wheel. “You don’t have to go in alone.”

“I know,” I whisper.

But the truth is, this is the one thing that I do need to do alone. The one thing that I need to face to get better. I reach for the door handle but pause when I feel his hand slip into mine.

“I just want you to know that you’re brave for coming,” he says. “Even if you don’t feel it yet.”

His words settle in my chest, warm and heavy. “Will you wait for me?” I ask, my voice small.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Always.”

Soft upbeat musicplays in the waiting room as a woman behind the desk gives me a kind smile when I check in, but I don’t really register what she says as I hyper focus on the muted colours of the walls that feel like they’re closing in on me.

I take a seat by the window and watch Reign through the glass. He’s leaning against the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette, eyes on the entrance like a sentry. Moments later, the therapist, a tall woman with wavy dark hair andwarm brown eyes, comes to the door and calls my name, giving me a warm smile. I return the smile and stand up, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else, and follow her into the office as she closes the door behind me.

Her office is nothing like I expected. Soft sunlight pours in through sheer curtains onto pale walls painted in warm ivory, and a plush cream rug that stretches across the floor. The scent of eucalyptus floats out of a diffuser, and a few leafy plants line the windowsill.

The couch is soft, upholstered in a buttery beige fabric that instantly hugs my body when I sit down. There are no cold desks or ticking clocks. Her office feels almost…inviting. Nothing like the sterile white walls and furniture I’d envisioned.

The therapist sits across from me in a matching armchair. She’s elegant, her wavy brown hair pulled back in a loose knot, and her warm, kind eyes meet mine without judgment. I’m surprised to see that she doesn’t have a notepad or clipboard. She’s just sitting there looking like she’s ready to jump into casual conversation with me.

“I’m Talia,” she says gently. “It’s really nice to meet you, Angelique.”

I give her a small nod, fingers curling into the hem of my sleeves as I sink further into the couch.

She tilts her head slightly, her voice low and steady. “I hear you’ve been having a tough time?”

My breath catches in my throat and the tears well instantly. It’s like that single sentence unlocked something deep in me I’ve been trying to keep buried, and before I can stop myself, I’m crying.

I tell her about everything. The rape, New York, my mother, the cutting, the lighter, the bridge. Every fragmented, shameful piece I’ve been carrying, and she listensintently the whole time, like she’s holding every word in her hands because she knows how heavy they are.

And at some point, I realize she’s crying too. Her fingers brush under one eye and she offers a small, tearful smile. And weirdly… that helps. It helps to not be the only one falling apart for once. We sit in silence for a long while when I finish, the tissues in my lap damp and crumpled. My head aches from crying, but for the first time in days—maybe weeks—my chest doesn’t feel so full it might crack open.

Talia leans forward, resting her hands on her knees. “You’re carrying so much,” she says, voice still warm but tinged with sorrow. “And I want to help you carry it. One piece at a time.”

I nod slowly, the lump in my throat too thick for words. She smiles again, and something about it feels like an anchor. She rises, walks to her desk, and returns with a slim leather notebook and an elastic band holding them out to me.

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