Page 25 of Played
His gaze locks onto mine, intense, searching. "What if I want to?"
Heat floods my chest. I look away first.
"Then change my name. Make me taller."
"You're perfect the way you are."
The words land softly, deliberate.
I swallow hard, staring at the scuffed linoleum.
Tara claps her hands gently. "Alright, everyone. Looks like everyone is here. No time like the present. Let's get started."
Tara settles into her chair and crosses her legs. "I should tell you a bit about myself before we dive in. I've been a licensed counselor for eight years now, specializing in trauma for five. I run three support groups across the city."
She doesn't sound rehearsed. Just comfortable with her own credentials.
"Let's go around the circle. Just your name for now. Nothing else."
We start with the man to Tara's left. "Marcus."
"Bethany."
"Ron."
"Susan."
"Carlos."
"Julian."
My turn. "Liza."
Seven of us total. I expected worse—some kind of emotional bloodletting. But this? Manageable.
Maybe it's Julian beside me, his presence solid, grounding.
Tara launches into trauma responses. Fight, flight, freeze, fawn. My mind wanders to the convenience store, how I froze while everyone else dropped. How Julian stayed calm.
We discuss this topic for a while. I never realized how complicated trauma really is.
"Breathing exercises," Tara continues, "are your first line of defense against panic."
She walks us through a four-count inhale, seven-count hold, eight-count exhale. The rhythm steadies me. Julian's breathing matches mine—we're synchronized without trying.
"PTSD doesn't discriminate," Tara says. "Violence affects everyone differently. These emotion regulation exercises? They're tools. Use them."
She emphasizes that sharing is optional. In future meetings, we can talk. Or not. No pressure. No judgment. Complete confidentiality.
When it wraps, I feel... lighter. Like something has shifted.
I watch Julian close his notebook and tuck it back into his jacket pocket.
The session ended five minutes ago, and people mill around the coffee station, helping themselves to pastries arranged on a folding table.
"Donut?" Julian nods toward the spread.
"Obviously."
