Page 163 of Glass Jawed
He looks down at his hands. His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I can’t stop you from remembering those words. From hearing them again and again. But I realized... there are so many people who go through this. Who hear shit like that and just...take it.Absorb it. Feel worsebecauseof it.”
He lifts his gaze again, something raw in his eyes. “So instead of being the person whocausedthat hurt... I wanted to be part of thesolution. Does that make sense?”
My smile creeps up before I can stop it. Startled. Real. “It does make sense.”
Because it does.
And I’m realizing it now—that it’s not just his words. It’s how he says them now. He’s different from the man who once chased me with half-apologies and borrowed charm.
In fact his apologies aren’t empty anymore. They carry weight—andlayers. They come with reflection, with understanding. His body language isn’t defensive, it’s open. Grounded. Like he’s actually ready to have hard conversations—without hiding.
He’s... different. I knew that already.
But this is the first time I actuallybelieveit.
FORTY-ONE
Aarohi
My emergency therapy session left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Ruth was... well, ruthless. In her calm, kind, maddeningly perceptive way.
I had told her what Advik and I talked about. About how I might be chasing something that isn’t sex, or even closure—just the reassurance that Lucian still wants me.
She turned it around on me. And also made me realize that Advik shouldneverattempt to be a therapist.
??????
“External validation,” Ruth said, “is like using a band-aid for a gash that needs stitches. It might make you think you’re helping the wound close. But it won’t. Notreally.”
I frowned. “So... keeping with the metaphor, who’s supposed to give me the stitches?”
She smiled gently. Didn’t answer right away.
I groaned. “Oh my god—it’sme, isn’t it? I’m the patientandthe doctor? It’d be easier if you just told me to ignore everything and grow a thicker skin. Literally and figuratively.”
Ruth tilted her head, voice even. “Ignoring the wound doesn’t make it heal. And thicker skin only dulls the pain—it doesn’t teach you how to live without fear of being cut again. Keeping up with the metaphor, of course.”
She waited a beat. “So. Let’s revisit some of the exercises we talked about. And this time, I want you to really sit with what your body is, not what youthinkit should be.”
I nodded, quietly.
She pulled out a notebook. “We’re going to do three things,” she said. “First, I want you to write a letter to your body. Not your appearance. Yourbody. The muscles that carry you. The legs that hold you upright. The lungs that pull air in when you’re sobbing. The arms that hug your friends and family.”
My chest tightened.
“Second,” she continued, “I want you to note every time in the next week you compare yourself to someone else. Write it down. And more importantly, write whattriggeredit. A comment. A photo. A look. Doesn’t matter. You’re at a wedding. I’m guessing it’ll be a bit overwhelming.”
I swallowed hard. “And third?”
“Third,” she said softly, “I want you to take one photo of yourself. Not posed. Not edited. Just you. And I want you to describe yourself in it like you would describe a stranger—withkindness. With neutrality, if you can’t get to kindness. But not with cruelty.”
“I can’t do that,” I muttered. “Not without... comparing. I’m not curvy but I’m also not a freaking Victoria’s Secret model. I don’t think I know how to be neutral.”
“That’s why we start small,” Ruth said. “You’re allowed to be in process. You’ve had ten-plus years of internalizing shame. We’re not undoing it in the next week.”
She looked at me, steady and grounded. “This isn’t about intimacy, Rohi. This is aboutidentity. You’ve survived by attaching worth to being wanted. But that’s exhausting. What if you could wantyourself—without performing for someone else’s gaze?”
