Page 79 of We Can Stay
“Okay.” The word tastes like surrender. “Thank you.”
She leaves after the standard pleasantries, and then Sebastian and I are walking through the parking lot, rain misting our faces. My body moves on autopilot while my mind spirals.
Maybe I should just give up. Take whatever cocktail of pills they prescribe, let them wreck my system. Watch my business crumble as I lose the ability to work. Move back in with my parents, become another chronic illness cautionary tale. The daughter who had such promise until her body betrayed her.
I’m so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of explaining, tired of being treated like I don’t understand my own body. Even Sebastian doesn’t get it, apparently.
Hannah would understand.
Tears blur my vision as I climb into Sebastian’s car. Of course, Hannah would understand. My Chronic Pain Crafters live this reality every day. They know what it’s like to be dismissed, to have your concerns minimized, to be treated like a problem instead of a person.
And what have I done? Lied to her. Kept secrets. Pushed away the one person who would truly understand what I’m going through.
“I know this is hard.” Sebastian starts the car, his voice full of that fix-it energy I’ve come to dread. “But we can manage the steroid side effects. Post-it notes for memory issues. Morning walks for the depression. Complex crochet patterns to calm your mind.”
I nod because I don’t have the energy to explain why his solutions are like offering a bandage for a severed limb. None of those things will give me my life back. They’re just pretty distractions from the ugly reality.
“I’ll come to your next appointment,” he continues, pulling out of the parking lot. “And I can use my alumni access to research alternative treatments. There might be options Dr. Jackson doesn’t know about.”
“Thank you.” The words come out as a whisper.
I stare at the rain-slicked road, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth in their endless rhythm. Yes, I want information about alternatives. But right now, what I really want is someone to acknowledge my pain without immediately trying to fix it.
If Hannah were here, she’d let me feel this. Maybe she’d even cry with me. Then we’d go to that overpriced stationery store near the medical building and buy pens we don’t need in colors that make us happy. We’d go home, eat CBD brownies, and watch terrible reality TV until the world felt bearable again.
But that’s not happening. Sebastian’s dropping me off before heading to work, and I have a custom order to dye while I cry alone in my kitchen.
He hasn’t even asked how I feel. He just keeps telling me things. Telling me it’s hard, as if I don’t know. Telling me to take medications that we’ve established don’t work for me. Telling me what I should do instead of asking what I need.
He pulls into my parking lot, and I climb out feeling like my joints have been replaced with rusty hinges.
“Hey.” At my front door, he wraps his arms around me. His embrace feels hollow, like we’re going through the motions. “It’ll be okay. You have me now. I’m here to help.”
The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. “Yeah.”
“I have to get to work.” He kisses me, but it’s just lips meeting lips. No spark, no electricity. The chemistry that once made my knees weak has fizzled out like a flame deprived of oxygen. “I’ll text you later.”
I force a smile as he walks away, then let myself into my condo. Cat meows from her perch on the back of the couch, but even her greeting can’t lift the weight settling over me.
Another day of pushing the boulder up the hill, only to watch it roll back down. Another day of pretending I’m fine while my body wages war against itself. Another day of keeping secrets from the people who might actually understand.
I hang my rain-damp jacket on the hook by the door and head to the kitchen. The custom order isn’t going to dye itself, and bills don’t stop coming just because I’m falling apart.
As I fill the dye pot with water, I catch my reflection in the kitchen window. The woman staring back looks exhausted, defeated. Nothing like the vibrant yarn artist I pretend to be online.
The water starts to heat, and I add the pre-soaked wool, watching it swirl in the forming colors. At least this I can control. At least this makes sense.
Even if nothing else in my life does anymore.
CHAPTER 23
Sebastian
“All right... Who do we have next?” I wash my hands after examining a Lab’s broken tooth, the tremor in my fingers more pronounced than usual. Too much caffeine, not enough food. The usual.
“A stray cat. The person who found her thinks she might be pregnant.”
“Let me guess. Pixie?”
