Dr. Monroe nods, tapping a pen against the leather-bound notebook resting on her lap. “Hypervigilance,” she says, her voice calm. “Your nervous system has been on high alert for so long that your body doesn’t know how to regulate itself anymore. It’s trying to prepare you for threats, even when there aren’t any in front of you.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, threats have a habit of showing up even when I’m not looking for them.”
She studies me, then glances at the bottle of Prozac peeking out of my bag. “And how has the medication been?”
I hesitate. I know what she’s asking. She wants the truth, not the automaticyeah, fineI’ve been giving everyone else.
“It helps,” I admit. “I guess.” I pause, pressing my lips together. “But my body feels… disconnected. Like I’m not in sync with myself. I’m exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up. And sometimes I feel like my emotions are blunted, like I should be feeling more, but it’s just… muffled.”
Dr. Monroe nods knowingly. “That’s a common side effect. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors like Prozac can help regulate mood, but they can also dull emotions, both the bad and the good.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Great. So I get to be anxiousandemotionally numb.”
She gives a small, amused smile but doesn’t contradict me. Instead, she leans forward. “Do you feel it most in certain situations?”
I hesitate. “Sometimes it’s random. But sometimes it happens when I walk into a room and something just… feels wrong.”
Dr. Monroe’s lips press together for a moment, like she’s debating something, then she says, “That’s not just in your head. Fear, yours or someone else’s, can trigger a response before you even realize it.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
She sits back, crossing one leg over the other. “Did you know that humans can actually smell fear?”
I blink. “Smell it?”
My thoughts immediately circle back to him, the man in the darkest corners of my mind; Aslanov. I remember it so vividly,‘‘Fear is such a fascinating thing. The way it twists and contorts them, bending them to my will.’’I swallow the desire down my throat as I cross my legs a little tighter.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s been studied, when someone experiences fear, their sweat releases specific chemical signals. And when another person is exposed to that scent, their brain, specifically the amygdala, responds as if they’re experiencing the fearthemselves.” She taps the side of her head. “Your brain processes it before you’re even conscious of it.”
I stare at her. “So, what? If I walk into a room where someone was terrified, I mightfeelit even if I don’t know why?”
Dr. Monroe nods. “Exactly. Your body picks up on it, your heart rate increases, your muscles tense, you feel uneasy. It’s an instinctive response, something deeply wired into us for survival.” She pauses. “It’s why you might get a bad feeling in a place where something awful happened, even if you weren’t there to see it.”
A cold shiver slides down my spine.
“That would explain a lot,” I murmur.
She watches me closely. “You’ve felt it before, haven’t you?”
I swallow, memories flickering through my mind. The way my skin prickled every time around him.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I have.”
Dr. Monroe gives a small, knowing smile. “You’ve learned to trust it. Even if you don’t realize it yet.”
I let out a breath, dragging a hand through my hair. “So, what am I supposed to do with that?”
She taps her pen lightly against her notebook. “You acknowledge it. You use it. But you also have to remind yourself that not every signal means you’re in immediate danger. Your body is responding to trauma, past and present. You have to learn to separate the two.”
I exhale sharply, leaning back against the chair. “Easier said than done.”
She nods, not disagreeing. “It takes time. But it’s possible.”
The clock ticks again, filling the silence between us.
I think about the messages on my phone. The ones from my mother. The ones I still haven’t answered.
My stomach knots again, that same unease curling in my gut.
