Keeping It Fluid -15

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I didn't sleep.

Even though the police had come and checked everything, even though Uncle David stayed up most of the night watching the security footage, even though Mom and Dad promised me I was safe, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The house was too quiet. Too still. It felt unnatural, like the silence itself was pressing in on me, smothering me. I lay in bed, my body stiff, my fingers curled tightly into the blanket as if letting go would mean losing all control. Every small noise—the house settling, a branch scraping against the window, the distant hum of a passing car—made my heart lurch into my throat.

I stared at my bedroom door, half-expecting it to creak open at any moment. The glow of the nightlight in the hallway cast long, stretched-out shadows that twisted along the walls, playing tricks on my tired mind. I swore I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, but every time I turned my head, there was nothing. Just the same empty room.

But was it really empty?

My breath was shaky. I pulled the covers up to my chin, listening.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The old wall clock in the hallway counted down the slowest seconds of my life. My own pulse throbbed in my ears, a steady, relentless drumbeat against my skull.

At some point, I must have started dozing off—if only for a second—because a sound from outside yanked me back into reality. A creak. Faint. Barely there. But I heard it. My blood turned to ice.

Was that just the wind? Or was someone out there?

I held my breath and listened harder, straining to pick up even the smallest sound over the wild pounding in my chest. My hands felt clammy as I gripped the blanket tighter. The urge to move, to check, to make sure everything was okay, was overwhelming. But at the same time, I was too afraid to lift my head, as if doing so would confirm that someone really was standing there.

It was irrational. I knew that. But fear didn't care about logic.

Minutes stretched into hours. The darkness outside remained just as deep, just as heavy. My window overlooked the backyard, but I didn't dare look. What if I saw something staring back?

I turned my phone over in my hands, resisting the urge to check for another message. Another threat. I had blocked the numbers, changed my contact information, done everything I could, but the fear was still there. Because what if they found a way to reach me again? What if Tasha's friends were out there, watching, waiting for the right moment?

When the first pale light of morning crept through my curtains, I still hadn't closed my eyes. My body felt like lead, exhausted beyond belief, but my mind was still on high alert.

I heard footsteps in the hallway—Dad, probably heading to the kitchen for coffee. The smell of it drifted in a few minutes later, comforting in a way I couldn't fully explain. A normal smell. A morning smell. But nothing felt normal anymore.

I forced myself to sit up. My limbs ached, and my head pounded from lack of sleep. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror across the room—pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled from tossing and turning all night. I looked like a ghost in my own body.

Because in a way, that's what I was now.

A shadow of the person I used to be.

And I didn't know if I'd ever feel safe again.

At breakfast, I sat at the table, staring at my untouched plate. The scrambled eggs on my plate had started to cool, congealing into clumps. The toast, lightly buttered just the way I used to like it, sat untouched, the crust slightly curling at the edges. The smell of bacon, usually my favorite, now made my stomach churn.

Mom kept looking at me. So did Dad. Lily was quiet, which was rare. Sam kept picking at his food, stabbing his fork into a piece of pancake over and over, like he didn't know what to say.

I didn't know what to say either.

I just felt numb.

The weight of last night pressed down on me like an anchor. The words from that last message still echoed in my head, wrapping around my thoughts like a vine I couldn't shake loose. Even after changing my number, even after sitting in that police station, it felt like none of it mattered. Tasha was in custody, but it didn't feel like she was gone. It didn't feel like any of this was over.

"Sweetheart," Mom tried gently. "You need to eat something."

I didn't answer.

I just kept staring at my plate, like if I focused hard enough, I could disappear. If I just sat still enough, maybe the world would move on without me. Maybe I wouldn't have to go back to school. Maybe I wouldn't have to pretend like everything was normal when nothing felt normal anymore.

Mom sighed, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Her fingers were warm, steady. She was trying to ground me, trying to remind me that she was here, that I wasn't alone. But even with her touch, I felt distant, like I was floating somewhere far away.

"We're going to see Dr. Hart today."

I barely blinked.

I didn't argue.

I just nodded.

Because what was the point?

Nothing was going to fix this. Nothing was going to make me safe again.

Dad cleared his throat, shifting in his seat like he wanted to say something but didn't know how. His coffee sat untouched in front of him, which was rare. Mom gave him a glance, a silent conversation passing between them, one I couldn't decode.

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now," Dad finally said, his voice measured, careful, like he was afraid I might break at the wrong word. "But we're going to get through this."

The words were meant to be comforting, but they didn't reach me. I wanted to believe him. I really did. But how was I supposed to get through this when every time I closed my eyes, I could still see Tasha? When every time my phone buzzed, I felt my stomach drop, even though I knew it couldn't be her anymore?

Lily finally spoke up, her voice small. "Maybe we can do something after? Go to the bookstore or something?"

I glanced at her. Her brown eyes were hopeful, hesitant. I knew she was trying, but I couldn't bring myself to nod, to agree, to pretend like anything sounded okay right now.

Mom gave my hand another squeeze before pulling back. "Just take a few bites, sweetheart," she murmured. "You don't have to finish, just... something."

I hesitated, then picked up my fork, pushing the eggs around my plate. The movement felt slow, disconnected, like I wasn't really the one doing it. I speared a small bite, brought it to my mouth, and chewed. The texture was wrong, the taste off. My throat tightened as I forced myself to swallow.

Mom smiled softly, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Dad finally took a sip of his coffee. Sam stopped stabbing his pancake. Lily gave me a small nod, like she was proud of me for at least trying.

I placed my fork down. That was all I could manage.

Mom didn't push me to eat more.

Instead, she reached for my plate, gathering it up along with everyone else's, as if to spare me the sight of it.

The quiet in the kitchen felt heavier than ever.

I sat there, hands folded in my lap, staring at the place where my plate used to be. The numbness hadn't lifted. If anything, it had settled deeper.

Dr. Hart wasn't going to fix this.

No one could.

I sat in the big chair across from Dr. Hart, staring at the same old bookshelf, the same ugly lamp, the same framed quote about healing taking time. The words blurred together, a dull smudge in my vision. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaning spray and the faintest hint of lavender, something I was sure was meant to be calming, but it did nothing to settle the tightness in my chest.

I'd been here before. So many times. But this time, I felt different. Like I wasn't really here at all.

Dr. Hart sat across from me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm, patient. She always waited—never forced me to talk, never pressured me. Her eyes were steady, like she could see right through all the walls I'd put up.

But today, the silence felt too heavy. Too thick. Like a suffocating fog pressing down on my lungs.

I swallowed, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my sweatshirt, twisting the fabric between my hands.

"I don't know what to say," I admitted, my voice flat, detached, like it wasn't really mine.

Dr. Hart tilted her head slightly. "That's okay. Start with whatever comes to mind."

I clenched my fingers tighter, my breath coming out too shallow, too slow.

"Tasha," I whispered, the name barely making it past my lips.

Dr. Hart nodded, her face unreadable. "You're scared."

I almost laughed. Understatement of the year.

"I don't feel scared," I said instead. "I just feel... nothing."

Dr. Hart studied me carefully, her gaze unwavering. "That's normal, Emily. It's your brain protecting you. Shutting down is a way to cope when everything feels too overwhelming."

I bit my lip, my gaze dropping to the floor. The patterned rug beneath my feet blurred, the swirling designs twisting into meaningless shapes.

"But I don't think I can fix this," I whispered. "I think... I think I'm always going to feel this way."

Dr. Hart leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but firm. "That's the fear talking," she said. "That's not the truth."

I shook my head, my throat tightening. "She tried to kill me. And she's not the only one. Someone else is out there. Someone who helped her."

My voice broke on the last word, and suddenly, it was like everything I had been holding back came crashing down at once.

The fear. The helplessness. The exhaustion.

My chest tightened, my vision blurred, my breath came in fast, uneven gasps. My hands started shaking, my fingers still clutching my sweatshirt like it was the only thing holding me together.

Dr. Hart didn't panic. She didn't rush. She just nodded.

"Breathe, Emily," she said softly. "It's okay to feel this."

I hated that. I didn't want to feel this. I wanted it to stop. I wanted everything to stop.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will the feeling away, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with my bare hands. My breathing hitched, my chest rising and falling too fast. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air too thick to breathe.

Dr. Hart's voice cut through the noise. "Count with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four."

I shook my head, but I tried anyway. One. Two. Three. Four.

The air filled my lungs, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Still, I forced the breath out. One. Two. Three. Four.

My hands ached from how tightly I'd been gripping my sweatshirt. Slowly, I let my fingers loosen, flexing them out, but the shaking didn't stop.

"Does it ever go away?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Hart was quiet for a moment, considering her words carefully.

Then she said, "It changes. It won't always feel this big, this heavy. It won't always be this terrifying. But it takes time."

I looked away, my stomach twisting. "I don't know if I have that much time."

Dr. Hart's gaze softened. "Why do you say that?"

I swallowed hard. My pulse pounded in my ears. I thought about the note. The way it was taped to my window. The words—YOU'RE NOT SAFE—scrawled in jagged, uneven letters.

My fingers twitched, phantom sensations crawling up my arms like I could still feel the paper between my fingertips. I'd ripped it down so fast I'd gotten a paper cut on my palm, but I hadn't even noticed until later.

I lifted my gaze, meeting Dr. Hart's steady eyes.

"Because I'm not safe," I whispered.

She didn't argue. She didn't tell me I was wrong. She just waited.

I let out a breath, my shoulders sinking under the weight of everything pressing down on me.

"I don't know if I ever will be again."