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After the final bell, Divine moved like clockwork. Her smile was rehearsed. Her laugh—too quick. She made polite nods to teachers, even answered a question in History without stuttering. On the surface, she looked like a girl trying.
But everyone saw through it—Bob, Joseph, Lara… even Kingsley, who didn't say a word when she got into the car, just glanced at her with a worried softness.
They didn't drive home.
Instead, the car turned toward a quiet road lined with trees, leading to the small, peaceful building where her therapist waited.
"Lara called," Kingsley said gently. "She thinks you need this today. So do I."
Divine didn't protest. She just nodded and got out.
The waiting room was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint ticking of a wall clock and the soft jazz music playing from a speaker overhead. Divine sat in the corner, legs crossed, hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring blankly at the stack of magazines on the table. She could feel her phone buzzing in her bag — Bob, probably — but she ignored it.
The receptionist smiled and gestured. "She's ready for you now."
Divine nodded, stood, and walked toward the familiar frosted glass door. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry today. She wouldn't tremble or look broken. She was going to be fine — or at least look like she was.
Dr. Naya's office was exactly the same. Earth tones. Soft pillows. Books neatly arranged by color. A leafy plant that looked far too healthy to be real.
"Hi Divine," Dr. Naya greeted, smiling warmly from her chair. She closed the small leather notebook on her lap and tilted her head. "Couch or floor?"
"Couch," Divine answered quickly, almost too quickly.
"Water? Tea?"
"I'm good, thanks."
She sat down, back straight, hands gripping her knees. Her face was calm — practiced — like she'd been rehearsing all day.
"You look rested," Dr. Naya said gently, "but your shoulders are saying otherwise."
Divine gave a faint smile. "I'm just tired. School."
"Tell me about it. How was being back?"
Divine took a breath. "Okay. I made it through the day. I answered a question in class. Laughed at something Joseph said. I smiled at the principal." A beat. "That has to count for something, right?"
Dr. Naya nodded. "It does. Showing up, engaging, even laughing — those are all signs of resilience. But I wonder…"
Divine's eyes flicked toward her. "Wonder what?"
"I wonder how much of it was real, and how much was survival."
That question hung in the air.
Divine shifted. "Does it matter?"
"It does to me," Dr. Naya said gently. "And it should to you."
Divine's jaw tensed. "I didn't want to break today. I didn't want to look like some ghost dragging my grief around. So I... performed a little. Is that wrong?"
"No," Dr. Naya said calmly. "Not wrong. Just tiring, maybe?"
Divine looked down. Her hands had started to shake slightly.
"Do you still dream about it?" Dr. Naya asked.
She blinked. Slowly.
"Sometimes."
"What was last night's?"
A pause.
"I saw her," Divine said quietly. "In the car. Again. But this time… she didn't speak. She just stared. Like she was disappointed."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Dr. Naya waited. No rush.
"She told me to go that day," Divine added. "To leave her. I did. And now she just... shows up in my dreams and says nothing."
"Does that feel like guilt?" Dr. Naya asked.
Divine swallowed hard. "I don't know what it is. I just know it sits on my chest and doesn't leave."
"Is that why you've been scratching your arm again?"
Divine flinched, glanced at her sleeves. "I've been trying to stop."
"I know," Dr. Naya said gently. "Trying is good. But hurting yourself is a conversation your body has when your voice can't."
That broke something.
Divine's lips trembled. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"I thought I could handle it," she whispered. "I thought if I kept smiling and acting normal, eventually it would all feel normal again."
Dr. Naya leaned forward, voice soft. "What are you afraid will happen if you stop pretending?"
"I'll fall apart."
"And if you do?"
Another silence.
"Then maybe I won't get back up."
The tears started to fall, quietly at first — like water slipping from a cracked faucet.
Dr. Naya didn't speak. She handed Divine a tissue and waited.
Divine wiped her cheeks, but it was no use. The sob came from somewhere deep — raw, and unfiltered.
"I miss her so much," she said between breaths. "And I hate that no one understands that the pain isn't just sadness — it's fear. Fear that I'll forget her laugh, or how her hands smelled like citrus lotion. Fear that I'll start dancing again and not feel her watching. Fear that if I'm happy… it means she's really gone."
"You're allowed to feel joy and grief together," Dr. Naya said. "That's not betrayal. That's healing."
Divine pressed the tissue to her face. "But it hurts."
"I know."
Divine pressed the tissue against her face, trying to slow her breathing. Her chest heaved with the weight she'd carried all day, all week — maybe longer than that. She wasn't sobbing anymore, not really, but the tears kept coming, quiet and steady, like rain that didn't know how to stop.
Dr. Naya didn't interrupt. She waited, her hands still and open in her lap, like she was holding space for Divine to crumble without shame.
Eventually, Divine spoke again, her voice hoarse.
"I don't know how to be okay without faking it."
"You don't have to be okay right now," Dr. Naya said. "You just have to be honest."
Divine gave a tired, tear-glazed laugh. "Honest feels heavier than pretending."
"It does," she nodded. "But it also makes you less alone."
Divine's lips parted, like she wanted to argue — or maybe agree — but no words came. She just looked down at her hands, the tissue clenched in one, her sleeves tugged too long over the other.
Dr. Naya softened her voice even more.
"What would it look like, Divine, if you gave yourself permission to just feel? No performance. No armor."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't look away either.
The question hung in the quiet between them like a thread — not pulling her apart, but gently asking her to hold on.
For now, that was enough.
Dr. Naya finally leaned back. "Let's take it one session at a time. We don't have to fix everything today."
Divine nodded slowly, wiping her face. "Good," she murmured. "Because I'm not ready for that yet."
"You don't have to be," Dr. Naya said. "You just have to keep showing up. And you did that today."
Divine didn't smile — not quite — but her face softened just a little. Her shoulders dropped.
They sat in silence again — the kind that held space, not emptiness.
Dr. Naya smiled. "That was brave."
"I didn't want to cry today."
"You needed to."
A small nod. "Yeah."
--
Divine stepped out of Dr. Anya's office, her face calm but unreadable, the kind of stillness that masked more than it revealed. The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic, its white walls buzzing softly with distant fluorescent light.
Kingsley stood up the moment he saw her, his eyes scanning her face with quiet desperation.
"Hey, sweetheart… everything okay?" he asked, his voice low and careful, like speaking too loudly might break something between them.
Divine gave a small nod without looking at him and began walking toward the exit. He followed beside her, not too close, watching the way her fingers curled slightly around the strap of her bag.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked as they approached the door.
She shook her head, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
Kingsley nodded slowly. "Alright. No pressure."
They reached the car. She paused while he unlocked it, then slipped quietly into the passenger seat. The ride home was quiet — not cold, not hostile, just… muted. The kind of silence that made it hard to breathe.
After a few minutes, Kingsley spoke again, his eyes still on the road.
"I know things haven't been the same between us… since then."
Divine said nothing, but her fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
"I didn't lie to hurt you," he continued. "I was scared. I thought I was helping you cope. I thought—" he paused, swallowing the rest. "But I understand if you can't forgive me yet."
Still, she said nothing. Her face was turned toward the window, the city blurring past in quiet streaks of gray and gold.
"I'm not angry," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kingsley turned slightly, surprised.
"Then talk to me. Please," he said, a little too quickly.
She shook her head gently, still facing the window.
"I just… I'm not ready. That's all."
Kingsley's hands tightened around the steering wheel. He nodded to himself, exhaling.
"Okay," he said. "Take your time. I'll wait."
Divine didn't respond. She leaned her head lightly against the glass, her breath fogging a small patch of the window. The silence returned, softer this time, like something wrapped in cloth.
And though they sat side by side, driving through the fading light of the city, the distance between them still felt miles wide.
When they got home, Divine stepped out of the car without a word and made her way inside. Her footsteps were light, her presence even lighter—as if she didn't want to disturb the air around her. Kingsley trailed behind slowly, watching her climb the stairs without looking back.
She didn't slam her door. Divine never did. She simply closed it, quiet but firm, shutting herself into the only space that didn't demand anything from her.
Her room was still the way she'd left it that morning—bed slightly unmade, curtains half drawn, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan cutting through the silence. She kicked off her shoes, let her bag fall beside the dresser, and sat on the edge of her bed with her hands in her lap.
A weight settled on her chest. Not heavy enough to crush, but enough to make breathing feel like work.
Lying back, she stared at the ceiling, eyes open but unfocused. The events of the day replayed in her head, not sharply, but like fragments of a dream she wasn't sure she'd woken from. Dr. Anya's soft voice. The way her father stood up too quickly when she came out. His eyes—always watching, always hopeful, always sorry.
She didn't know what to do with that sorrow. Not yet.
Downstairs, the house moved on without her. The clink of cutlery, the sound of the news playing faintly in the living room, the familiar rhythm of a home trying to stay normal. Kingsley didn't call her down for dinner. Maybe he knew she wouldn't come.
She spent the rest of the evening in that same position—quiet, still, and wrapped in thoughts too complicated to name. She wasn't angry anymore. She wasn't even sad, exactly.
She was just… tired.
And sometimes, that was worse.