Page 62 of Becoming Us
Samuel’s tone softened. “That feeling you’re having right now—when have you felt it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t shy away from it. Feel it. Then tell me when.”
A shaky breath slipped past my lips as I hesitated.
“When we were together before,” I began slowly. “Atty and I. When things felt good. Or I thought they were good, but his friends kept looking at me like I was the worst thing that ever happened to him.”
“Can you think of something further back?”
I closed my eyes. I held on to that twisting feeling in my chest, the fear coursing through me like a live wire.
“At school. When nobody wanted to keep me. I didn’t get it—I didn’t understand why they didn’t want me.”
“Further back.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I licked my lips when it reached them. The hole inside me widened.
“My dad lying to me. I was doing everything right. I don’t get why he did it.”
“Further?” His voice stayed soft.
I shrugged.
“My mom,” I said, my voice breaking. “She kept changing her mind, and I never knew when I was good or not. Nothing worked.”
I didn’t know what to do to stop her from hating me.
I squeezed my eyes shut as another wave of tears spilled out.
“It’s just me, right? It doesn’t matter what I do,” I whispered.
There’s something wrong with me.
I’m not a good person.
I’m never going to be enough.
I buried my face in my hands.
“Sometimes,” Samuel said gently, “if we repeat something to ourselves enough—some stray idea or hurtful thought—it starts to feel like truth.”
More tears streamed through my fingers, falling soundlessly on the sheets below.
“It’s a false belief, Noah. Just because it feels true doesn’t mean it is. You have value simply because you exist. And there are people in your life who prove that—whether you believe it yet or not.”
I shrugged, unable to find anything else to say.
“This feeling you’re having with Atticus,” he continued, “it echoes from another wound. Makes it bigger. Magnifies it.”
Was that true? Or was it just me? If I was the common denominator, it had to be me…didn’t it?
“If you could see him right now—that little Noah, the scared kid who doesn’t feel loved—what would you say to him?”
The image came fast and clear. Me, small and curled up in a dark closet. Hiding. Hoping someone—anyone—would come find me.
“What does he need to hear?”
