Not the man who letfearmasquerade aslogic.
I want to beme. The one who found himself in the way she looked at him. Who started laughing again because she laughed first.
But who is that version of me?Whereis that version of me?
The year after Tim—it’s like a fog. I was functioning. Fucking. Working. Smiling in pictures. But none of it felt...anchored. I was hollow. And I didn’t even realize it until I wasn’t anymore.
Until Rohi.
With her, I didn’t feel lost.
I felt...returned.
And even now—without her—I still feel tethered. Like the time I spent with her gave me some blueprint for who I used to be. Who I want to be again. Not for her. Notjustfor her.
Butbecauseof her.
But then I went andChrissy’dthe whole fucking thing. And that version was blown to bits in her eyes.
Jesus Christ. I brought a girl to my bed. I let hertouchme. Why? Because it would give me some pathetic upper hand? Because causing pain would numb mine?
It didn’t.
It detonated everything.
So now I’m here. Sitting on a padded chair in front of a psychotherapist. Reeling from the painful narration of my brainless decisions.
I’m one-week sober. Clear-headed—albeit jumpy. And disturbingly unsure ofwhyI ruined everything.
But painfully aware of how much I’ve lost—and how little I deserve to ask for it back.
But maybe I don’t need to ask.
Maybe I just need to...be.Fornow.
Become who I should’ve been when I’m not hiding behind bitterness and burn scars.
Then maybe, by some miracle, I’ll be granted the privilege of her presence. And she’ll see that even though I’m not lost anymore, I’ve begun to find myself.
Becauseshefound me first.
“Lucian?” My therapist, Alan, jolts me back into my chair.
“Shit. Sorry.” I offer an awkward smile, trying to shake the fog.
He nods, unfazed. “It’s alright. I asked if you’ve given more thought to thewhyof things since the last session. We know what prompted you to do what you did. But we don’t know why yet.”
“You tell me,” I huff, defensive. “Because I’m selfish. I lack empathy. Logic. Emotionalfuckingintelligence. Take your pick.”
He sighs but holds my gaze. Calm. Measured. “Self-flagellation won’t get you to your why, Lucian. And self-pity? That only puts a convenient excuse over your decisions.”
I let that sit in the air for a second.
It’s not that I don’t understand what I’m doing. It’s that saying it out loud—to someone outside the walls of my empty apartment—makes itreal. And I need real.
Iwantto say I was selfish. That I wasmisguided. That Ichoseto lack empathy. That I drowned inavoidance.
I clear my throat. Twice.
