I sat at the kitchen table, a warm mug of hot cocoa cupped between my hands. The rich scent of chocolate and cinnamon curled in the air, comforting but not enough to fully shake the lingering weight pressing against my chest. The sunlight streamed through the window, too bright, too harsh—as if the world outside had no idea how heavy the last twenty-four hours had been. The contrast felt almost unfair. How could everything still look so normal when I felt anything but?

Across the room, Mrs. Blake stood by the counter, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice, always so steady, carried a calm reassurance even when I couldn't hear every word. "Yes, I'm calling to let the school know Emily won't be attending today," she said, glancing over at me with a gentle smile that I tried to return. "She's not feeling well and needs some time to recover."

She hung up, but before I could say anything, she picked the phone up again and flipped through a small notebook she had pulled from the kitchen drawer. This time, her voice was quieter, more measured. I couldn't make out everything she said, but I caught bits and pieces—"children's psychologist," "urgent," "availability"—each phrase twisting my stomach tighter.

I looked down at my mug, watching the steam swirl lazily into the air. My fingers tightened around the ceramic. I knew she was trying to help. I knew that. But the idea of sitting in a stranger's office, having to talk about what was in my head, made me feel even more exhausted than I already was.

Mrs. Blake finally hung up the phone and turned toward me. Her expression was soft, kind, but there was no mistaking the seriousness behind her eyes. "I found someone who can see you tomorrow morning," she said gently, easing into the chair across from me. "We'll go together after breakfast. Does that sound okay?"

I swallowed, shifting in my seat. I wanted to say no, to insist I was fine, that I didn't need this. But the truth was... I didn't even know if I was fine.

So instead, I just nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

Mrs. Blake reached over and gave my shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze. "We'll get through this together, Emily. You don't have to do it alone."

Her words settled into my chest, pushing against something heavy that had been lodged there for too long. I gave her a small nod, and even though I didn't feel much better, at least I didn't feel completely lost.

She stood and moved toward the stove, cracking eggs into a pan, the scent of butter and toast filling the kitchen. "Nothing fancy, just something light," she said, as if I needed convincing. "It's important to eat, even just a little."

I didn't argue. I wasn't really hungry, but I also knew that Mrs. Blake wasn't the type to let me get away with skipping meals. So when she placed the plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, a single slice of toast, and a cup of chamomile tea—I picked up my fork and forced myself to take slow, careful bites.

She didn't rush me. She sat with me, eating her own breakfast in comfortable silence. And for that, I was grateful.

Once we'd finished and the dishes were cleared, she gave me a thoughtful look. "How about we tackle a few things around the house? Nothing too strenuous, just some tidying up."

It was an invitation, not a demand. A way to keep busy without pushing too hard.

"Sure," I said. Anything to keep my mind from spiraling.

We spent the morning moving through small, manageable tasks. Folding laundry in the living room, wiping down the kitchen counters, dusting the bookshelves. It wasn't much, but the steady rhythm of cleaning, the soft swish of cloth against wood, the quiet presence of Mrs. Blake beside me—it was enough. Enough to keep the weight in my chest from growing too heavy.

"Hey, Emily," Mrs. Blake said at one point, as she carefully rearranged a set of framed photos on the mantel. "You've been reading a lot lately."

I shrugged, dusting the edge of a bookshelf. "Yeah, I guess."

She smiled, setting a frame back in place. "You know, when I was your age, I used to love writing my own stories. Maybe you should try it sometime."

I hesitated, the thought catching me off guard. Writing? I'd never really thought about it before. Putting my thoughts onto paper, letting them exist outside of my own head... could that really help?

"Maybe," I murmured, and for the first time all morning, something in my chest felt just a little bit lighter.

By lunchtime, the house looked cleaner, and I felt calmer. Mrs. Blake made sandwiches—nothing fancy, just turkey and cheese with a side of chips—and we ate together at the kitchen table.

She asked me about the books I'd been reading, and I listened as she told me about her favorite stories from when she was my age. I didn't have a lot to say, but I liked hearing her talk. There was something warm and safe about the way she spoke, like every word was meant to remind me that I wasn't alone.

The peace lasted until the front door swung open, bringing with it the sound of thudding backpacks and the unmistakable energy of Lily and Sam returning home.

"Mom! We're home!" Lily's voice rang through the house, bright and full of life.

Sam followed with significantly less enthusiasm. "What's for dinner?"

Mrs. Blake stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Something easy," she called back. "How was school?"

"Boring," Sam answered, appearing in the doorway. He spotted me curled up on the couch and tilted his head. "You're still home?"

"She's taking it easy today," Mrs. Blake answered before I could, stepping forward before Sam could say anything else. "Why don't you two wash up and get started on your homework?"

Lily bounded into the living room, her scarf still half on, her backpack slipping off her shoulders. She paused in front of me, her head tilting in curiosity. "Are you sick?"

I hesitated, unsure what to say, but Mrs. Blake answered for me. "She's just resting," she said gently. "Nothing to worry about."

Lily considered that for a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "Okay," she said before darting upstairs, already yelling something to Sam about math homework.

Sam grumbled as he followed, muttering about how much he hated fractions.

The house, once so quiet, suddenly felt alive again. And somehow, in all the noise and movement, I felt my shoulders relax.

I let out a slow breath, sinking deeper into the couch.

The day wasn't easy, but it was manageable.

And right now, manageable was enough.

The kitchen was warm and alive with the scent of simmering spices, fresh herbs, and sizzling oil. The steady rhythm of Mrs. Blake's chopping mixed with the occasional bubbling from a pot on the stove, creating a familiar, comforting backdrop. The overhead light cast a soft glow over the counters, making everything feel just a little bit cozier, a little bit safer.

I stood at the counter with a wooden mallet in my grip, a thick cut of meat resting on a sturdy board in front of me. My fingers tightened around the handle, my knuckles pale with pressure.

"Just a few firm hits," Mrs. Blake instructed from across the kitchen, stirring something in a pan. "Enough to tenderize it, but not so much that you flatten it completely."

"Okay," I murmured, adjusting my stance.

I raised the mallet and brought it down. Hard.

The sound was sharp, slicing through the quiet warmth of the kitchen. I hit the meat again, then again—each strike landing with a force that felt too heavy, too desperate. My breathing grew shallow as my chest tightened, the pressure in my head mounting. The rhythmic pounding drowned out everything else—the bubbling pot, the ticking clock, even Mrs. Blake's voice when she first called my name.

"Emily," she said again, firmer this time, setting her spoon down and stepping closer. "That's enough."

But I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop.

The mallet slammed against the cutting board, over and over. My grip turned vice-like around the handle, my fingers aching, but I didn't care. The kitchen blurred at the edges, my vision swimming as something inside me coiled tighter and tighter, threatening to break. The weight of the past few weeks—the whispers at school, the nightmares, Trevor's cruel words, the dream of the fire—all of it came rushing back in an overwhelming flood.

It had to go somewhere. I had to put it somewhere.

The mallet struck again, harder this time, rattling the counter. Tears burned in my eyes, but I kept going, the force behind each hit growing more erratic.

Then, a hand—**warm, steady, grounding—**rested gently on my shoulder.

"Emily," Mrs. Blake said, her voice quiet but firm. "It's okay. You can stop now."

I froze.

The mallet slipped from my grasp, clattering against the cutting board. A sharp sob tore from my throat, escaping before I could stop it. My shoulders trembled as my hands clenched into fists, my breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps.

"I can't," I choked out. "I can't stop feeling like this."

Mrs. Blake turned me toward her, her hands firm but gentle on my shoulders. Her expression was soft, her eyes searching mine with quiet patience.

"Feeling like what, Emily?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I sucked in a shaky breath, my whole body trembling as the words poured out before I could hold them back.

"Like I'm stuck," I admitted, my voice breaking. "Like no matter what I do, it's never enough. I keep trying to move on, but it's still there. The nightmares, the things people say, the way everything just feels so... heavy. I don't know how to stop feeling this way."

My chest ached with the weight of it all. My hands trembled at my sides.

Tears blurred my vision, spilling over before I could stop them. I let out a small, broken sound—a cry, a breath, a plea.

And Mrs. Blake didn't hesitate.

She wrapped me in her arms, pulling me close, holding me like she knew I was falling apart but wasn't going to let me break alone.

My sobs hit hard, the kind that made my ribs hurt, the kind I had tried to swallow down too many times before. But this time, I didn't have to hide it. This time, I let myself lean into her, into the warmth, the steadiness, the quiet reassurance in the way she held me—like she wasn't afraid of my pain.

Her hand stroked my hair, slow and calming, her voice soft as she whispered, "It's okay, sweetheart. Let it out. You don't have to hold it all in."

So I did. I let the floodgates open, letting every bottled-up emotion, every fear, every ache, and every unspoken word pour out. I let myself cry.

We stood there for what felt like forever, the kitchen silent except for the quiet hum of the stove and the sound of my breathing against her shoulder.

Eventually, the storm inside me began to settle. My sobs faded into hiccups, the weight pressing against my chest lifting—just a little.

Mrs. Blake pulled back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. She brushed a tear-streaked strand of hair from my face, her gaze filled with nothing but warmth and understanding.

"You've been carrying so much on your own," she said, her voice steady but gentle. "You don't have to do that anymore, Emily. You don't have to do this alone. We're here, and we want to help."

I swallowed thickly, my throat raw from crying. "I don't know how to let go," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

She squeezed my hands in hers. "That's okay," she said. "You don't have to let go all at once. Healing takes time, and it's okay to take it slow. Tomorrow, we'll talk to the psychologist—that'll be one step forward. But tonight?" She smiled softly, squeezing my hands again. "Tonight, let's just focus on this moment."

I nodded, swiping at my damp cheeks with the back of my hand. "Okay."

She let out a breath, her smile widening just slightly. "Now," she said lightly, glancing down at the mangled piece of meat on the cutting board, "how about we finish dinner together? Maybe you take over the vegetables this time?"

I let out a weak, breathy laugh—small, but real. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."

Mrs. Blake chuckled, passing me the cutting board with a knowing look. "Good. I don't think the meat can take much more abuse."

As I reached for a knife, my hands still slightly unsteady, I realized I felt lighter. Not completely, not all at once. But just enough.

And that was something.

By the time dinner was ready, the kitchen was warm again—not just from the stove, but from the quiet comfort that had settled between us. The aroma of roasted vegetables and perfectly seasoned meat filled the air, wrapping the space in something familiar, something safe.

When Lily and Sam bounded into the room, their usual energy trailing behind them like a whirlwind, they dove straight into setting the table, completely oblivious to the emotions that had unraveled just moments before.

Lily, always the loudest, grinned as she inhaled the smell of food. "Oh my gosh, finally! I thought we were gonna starve waiting for you guys."

Sam, setting down the glasses, snorted. "Dramatic much?"

"You don't understand suffering, Sam," she shot back.

The exchange made me smile—really, truly smile.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt something other than exhaustion.

I wasn't fixed. I wasn't healed. But I was here.

And right now, that was enough.