Page 105 of Terms of Exposure
The spa smelled like eucalyptus and questionable life choices.
I lay face-down on a heated massage table, my face smushed into one of those padded donut holes that promised comfort and delivered mild suffocation. Somewhere above me, a speaker piped in what I could only describe as "whale sounds meets wind chimes"—music that was supposed to be relaxing but mostly made me feel like I was trapped in an elevator to enlightenment.
This was my life now.
The thought still made me want to laugh. Or cry. Possibly both.
Two weeks and a day ago, everything had almost ended. But somewhere between the lies and apologies, I'd found myself here.
Rules.
Actual, formalized rules.
Rest—mandatory, non-negotiable. Meals—real ones, not coffee and stress. Sleep—in a bed, not passed out on the couch with spreadsheets dancing behind my eyelids.
And the hardest one: immediate communication.
That last one was going to kill me.
But here's the thing—if it was a rule, it wasn't a weakness.
It was obedience.
And that was… nice.
Unlikethe elbow currently drilling into my shoulder blade.
I flinched.
"Too much pressure?" The masseuse—Ingrid, according to her name tag—paused mid-stroke.
"No, it's fi—"
The word died on my tongue.
"Actually," I heard myself say, "it's a little too hard. Could you ease up?"
"Of course." Ingrid's hands softened immediately, the pressure shifting from "medieval torture device" to "firm but humane." "Better?"
"Much. Thank you."
She resumed her work, and I lay there in the eucalyptus-scented silence, having a tiny internal celebration.
I did it.
I asked for what I needed. Out loud. Without apologizing seventeen times or convincing myself I was being difficult or dramatic.
It was such a small thing. Ridiculous, really. A massage. Pressure preferences. Boundaries a normal person set without thinking twice.
But I wasn't a normal person. I was me—chronic people-pleaser, professional martyr, woman who would rather chew off her own arm than say,actually, that hurts.
Damien would be proud.Warmth spread through my chest, chasing away some of the tension Ingrid's hands couldn't reach.
But tonight, I'd have to explain why that mattered to a stranger.
We had an appointment tonight.
Our first.
