The cold, sterile room smelled like antiseptic and fear. I sat on the paper-covered exam table, legs swinging, watching the doctor scribble notes. My parents stood nearby — my father pale, my mother’s lips pressed into a thin, furious line.
“It’s called Dissociative Regression Disorder,” the doctor explained calmly. “In Brittany’s case, these episodes are a psychological defense — a way of escaping overwhelming stress by reverting to a younger mental state.”
“She’s twenty-one,” my mother hissed. “She’s not five.”
“Yes,” the doctor nodded, “but emotionally, during these episodes, she regresses to a childlike state. It’s involuntary. We can manage it with therapy and proper support.”
My father ran a hand down his face. My mother only muttered, “Unbelievable.”
For the next year, my life became a careful choreography.
My mother arranged every photoshoot, making sure I was never booked during the episodes. My apartment became my cage, my gilded prison. And when the childlike states came — sometimes once a month, sometimes twice a week — I was locked away, hidden from the cameras and lights.
I learned to pretend I was okay.
But inside… I was fracturing.
And then came my twenty-second birthday.
The morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, soft and golden. I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an explosion of pink tissue paper, glittery balloons, stuffed animals, and birthday hats. I’d ordered it all myself — online, at three in the morning, when the childlike haze took over.
A giant unicorn plushie sat beside me, a plastic tiara perched crookedly on my head. I clapped my hands, humming a little tune, pressing stickers to my cheeks.
“Happy birthday to me,” I sang softly, rocking back and forth. “Happy birthday, dear Britty…”
The doorbell rang.
I froze, head tilting. Then I burst into giggles, crawling toward the door on my hands and knees, dragging the unicorn behind me.
When I flung the door open, Jasper stood there.
For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke.
He looked… older. His sandy hair was longer, falling into his eyes. His jaw was sharper, the boyish grin I remembered nowhere in sight. His eyes flicked down — taking in the tiara, the stickers, the armful of stuffed toys — and his face crumbled.
“Brittany,” he breathed.
I grinned up at him. “Jaspy!” I squealed. “Look, look, I got a unicorn! Isn’t she pretty?”
He stumbled forward, hands trembling, sinking to his knees in front of me. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Brit…” His voice cracked. “What… what happened to you?”
I giggled, poking his nose. “Boop!”
“Brittany — stop.” His hands closed around mine, gently but firmly. “Please, baby, come back. Please.”
I tilted my head, confused. “Come back from where?”
He let out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and pressed his forehead to my knees.
“God, I should’ve come sooner,” he whispered. “I should’ve fought for you.”
My fingers threaded into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly. “Your hair’s soft, Jaspy.”
He pulled back, cupping my face. “Brit… listen to me. You have to fight this. You have to snap out of it.”
But in that state, I didn’t understand. My world was soft edges and baby laughter, pink bows and glitter. His words floated around me like bubbles — pretty, but meaningless.
