Chapter 54 up
“Breathe in… now let it go.”
Nyla gripped the edge of the blanket. Her chest rose and fell too fast, shallow and uneven, cold sweat soaking her temples. The therapy room was quiet, softly lit, designed to feel safe—but the night still clung to the corners of her mind like rust that refused to fade.
“I can smell metal,” she gasped. “Cold. The floor is cold.”
“Look at me, Nyla,” her therapist said gently, firmly. “You’re safe. Right now. Here.”
Nyla lifted her face slowly. Her fingers trembled as she followed the grounding exercise—naming five things she could see, four things she could hear, three things she could touch. The rhythm of her breathing began to steady, each inhale no longer a battle.
“Good,” the therapist said. “Did the nightmare come again last night?”
Nyla nodded. “I woke up screaming. I thought… the door was locked again.”
She swallowed hard. There was a long pause before she added quietly, “I hate sleeping.”
“She refused the visit.”
The nurse stood in front of Clark, a clipboard pressed to her chest. “Not for medical reasons. It was the patient’s request.”
Clark nodded, his face stiff. “I understand.”
Vincent stood beside him, hands in his coat pockets. “Do you want me to talk to her?”
“No,” Clark answered quickly. “Let her be.”
Clark stepped back from Nyla’s room door. His hands clenched, then slowly relaxed. He wasn’t angry. He was afraid—afraid that this distance was permanent. But he knew forcing his presence would only reopen wounds that had barely begun to close.
“She’s choosing herself,” Vincent said softly.
Clark nodded. “And that’s what should have happened from the beginning.”
“I refused Clark,” Nyla said during her next session. “Not because I hate him.”
“Then why?” the therapist asked.
Nyla looked toward the window. Outside, leaves swayed in the wind, their movement quiet and indifferent. “Because every time I see him, I become the woman who waits to be saved.”
She inhaled slowly. “I don’t want to live like that anymore.”
“What kind of life do you want?” the therapist asked.
Nyla was silent for a long time. Then she said, “A life that doesn’t depend on anyone else to breathe.”
Night came again. The lights in her room dimmed. Nyla sat cross-legged on the bed, a notebook open on her lap. Her hand hovered in the air, pen trembling.
I lost myself between two names, she wrote. Wife. Victim. The woman who waits.
She crossed out the line, hard, then wrote again.
I want to be Nyla again—the one who chooses.
She closed her eyes. Memories surfaced: herself smiling softly while making simple plans; herself giving in, postponing, forgiving too often. It felt like mourning—not for someone else, but for the version of herself she had abandoned.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. “I left you alone for too long.”
“Where do you want to relocate?” the social worker asked, opening her laptop.
“Somewhere without memories,” Nyla replied quickly. “A small town. Quiet.”
“And work?”
Nyla exhaled. “I have administrative experience. I can learn again.”
The social worker smiled. “You sound very sure.”
“I’m learning,” Nyla said. “Bit by bit.”
Her phone vibrated. Clark’s name appeared on the screen—a short message, not demanding: I’m here if you need me.
Nyla turned off the screen without replying. Not out of coldness. Out of resolve.
“How does it feel to say no?” the therapist asked in the next session.
“Scary,” Nyla answered honestly. “But also… light.”
She smiled faintly. “Like standing for the first time without holding on.”
“Trauma doesn’t disappear overnight,” the therapist said. “You’ll fall.”
“I know,” Nyla nodded. “But this time, I’ll get up on my own.”
Vincent stood in the hallway when Nyla came out for a short walk. He didn’t approach too quickly.
“You look stronger,” he said.
Nyla gave a small smile. “I’m learning the difference between being strong and being numb.”
Vincent nodded. “I can help with work arrangements, if you want.”
“I want to,” Nyla replied firmly. “But not out of pity.”
“Not pity,” Vincent said. “Choice.”
The last night before her move arrived quietly.
Nyla stood in front of the mirror, her hair loose, her face pale but her eyes clear. She took a deep breath and spoke aloud—to herself.
“I am alive.”
Tears fell, but she didn’t panic. She wiped them away and smiled faintly. Her bags were ready. Documents neatly arranged. Plans—not perfect, but real.
She wrote one final sentence in her notebook and closed it firmly.
I do not want to return as anyone other than myself.