Page 21 of Angel
I glance at my phone on the coffee table. No charts open, no forums glowing, not a single alarm set for temperature checks. Just Angel’s last message sitting there, unread because I don’t need to open it to know what it says.
I love you.
I pick up the phone. Flip it face down. Not because I don’t want to see it. But because I want to sit in this moment without reaching for control. That feels…dangerous.Like walking across a tightrope without checking the rope first.
We talk about counseling like it’s a fragile thing. Like if we say it too loud, it might shatter. My sister doesn’t push. She just listens while I circle the idea, my words looping and doubling back on themselves.
“I don’t want someone telling me what to do,” I say.
“They shouldn’t,” she replies. “They should help you figure out what you need.”
“I don’t want to be told to relax.”
She snorts softly. “If they say that, you’re allowed to walk out.”
That earns a small smile. The first one in days.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “What if they tell me to stop trying?”
She considers that, not dismissing it.
“What if they help you find a way to try without destroying yourself?” she asks.
The idea lands softly. Doesn’t bruise like the others have. A way to try without destroying myself. Is that even possible?
I nod once, slowly. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“You won’t,” she says. “Angel made that pretty clear.”
He did.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t treat the word"help"like a weakness.
And that matters more than I want to admit.
That night, alone in the spare room, sleep doesn’t come easy. But it’s different than before. I’m not wired or frantic. Just… tender. Like my insides have been sanded raw.
I lie on my side, knees drawn up, listening to the familiar creak of the house settling around me. I don’t take my temperature. The thermometer sits in my bag on the dresser.Untouched.That alone feels monumental. I don’t reach for the notebook. I don’t open the apps.
My fingers twitch once, out of habit. Then go still. The fan hums overhead. I let myself just exist.No tracking. No planning. Just breathing.
My phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.
Angel??: You, okay?
I stare at it for a moment. Then type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Yeah. Tired. But okay.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Angel??: Proud of you.
My throat tightens. I stare at the words like they’re something precious and dangerous.
