Page 36 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“That’s going to be hard.”
“It is. But remember, you’re not there for you. You’re there for him.”
“What should I bring?”
“Comfort things. Favorite snacks if they allow them, books, maybe a soft jumper that smells like home. Pictures sometimes help, not of big groups or parties, but of quiet moments. Things that remind him of good times without overwhelming him.”
I think about the photos on my phone, mostly just the two of us being idiots, pulling faces at the camera or collapsed on my sofa after too much beer. Normal, silly moments that feel impossibly precious now.
“What if he asks about... things? About work?”
Molly’s expression grows serious. “Be as honest as you can without traumatizing him further. But remember, he’s in there partly because the outside world feels too dangerous. Don’t bring your dangerous world into his safe space unless you absolutely have to.”
“Right.” I drain the rest of my wine, feeling steadier than I have in days. “Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For this, for listening, for not making me feel like a complete freak for having complicated feelings about my traumatized best friend.”
He grins. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, love is always complicated. The simple stuff isn’t worth having.”
As I drive home through the gray London afternoon, I think about what Molly said. About loving someone for who they are now, not who they used to be or might become. About wanting things without making demands. About being the safe person in someone’s life.
It feels like an impossible task and the only thing worth doing, all at the same time.
But for the first time since I left Liam at the hospital, I feel like maybe I can do this. Maybe I can be what he needs, even if it’s not what I want. Maybe love really is enough, if you do it right.
And maybe someday, when he’s ready, we can figure out the rest together.
Chapter twelve
Liam
The first thing I noticed about Harley Street Psychiatric Care wasn’t the tasteful artwork on the walls or the soft lighting designed to be calming rather than clinical. It was not the expensive leather furniture in the common areas or the fact that my room has an actual window with a view of a small garden instead of a brick wall.
It was the price list I glimpsed on a clipboard when Dr. Hassan thought I wasn’t looking. Three thousand pounds per week. Minimum.
Even now, my stomach drops just thinking about it. I’ve been here four days, which means Nicky has already spent more money on my mental breakdown than most people make in months. Money he earned doing things I can’t let myself think about too clearly. Blood money transformed into soft sheets and private rooms and therapy sessions with doctors who have posh accents and kind eyes.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. This place is nothing like the NHS ward I was expecting. No overcrowded rooms or overworked staff or the smell of industrial disinfectant that takes you straight back to the worstparts of prison. Here, everything is designed to be gentle, healing, and peaceful.
But it’s still an institution. And institutions have rules, and locks, and people in uniforms who make decisions about your life without asking what you think.
The staff are lovely, genuinely warm and professional in a way that feels authentic rather than forced. Emma, my primary nurse, has curly red hair and freckles and speaks to me like I’m a person rather than a diagnosis. Dr. Chen, my psychiatrist, is patient and thorough, never rushing our sessions, always checking that I understand what he’s saying before moving on.
But their shoes still thud against the polished floors in that particular institutional rhythm that makes my skin crawl. Their keys still jangle from their belts, that metallic sound that means locked doors and controlled movements and the absence of choice. When they do their rounds at night, I can see the fluorescent lights in the corridor bleeding under my door, harsh and unforgiving despite all the soft lamps and warm colors in the rooms themselves.
It’s like someone has taken a prison and wrapped it in expensive wallpaper, hoping no one will notice the bars underneath.
By the third day, the walls started closing in.
It began with small things and continued to build and build.
Now, I can’t stand any of it. The way the door to my room clicks when it shuts, even though it doesn’t lock because I’m not deemed dangerous. The way meal times are scheduled and announced over the intercom system, robbing you of the simple choice of when to eat. Theway there are cameras in the corners of the common areas, discreet but unmistakably present.
Rationally, I know that this isn’t prison. I can walk out any time I want. I can refuse treatment, demand to be discharged, tell them all to fuck off and take my chances on the outside. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones are different things entirely.
Prison teaches you that institutions exist to control you. That the people in uniforms, no matter how kind they seem, ultimately have power over you in ways that can destroy you. That safety is an illusion, and the moment you start believing in it is the moment you become vulnerable to having it ripped away.
