Chapter 57 up
“Breathe, Nyla. Slowly.”
The voice was gentle, yet firm. Nyla sat in a soft gray chair, both hands gripping the armrests as if they were the only things anchoring her to the room. Her legs trembled. Her jaw tightened. The air felt too narrow, even though the window was wide open.
“I… I’m fine,” she said quickly, reflexively. Too quickly. Like a lie she had practiced far too often.
The therapist across from her—a middle-aged woman with calm, steady eyes—did not respond right away. She waited. Silent. Making space.
Nyla hated the silence.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” the therapist said at last. “But your body speaks, even when your mouth doesn’t.”
Nyla swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened their grip.
“My body is a traitor,” she murmured, then let out a short laugh that broke halfway through. “It reacts before I even have time to think.”
“Your body is surviving,” the therapist replied gently. “That’s different.”
Nyla lifted her face. Her eyes were red—not only from tears, but from a fatigue that had settled deep inside her for days. “I don’t want to survive,” she said quietly. “I want to… stop remembering.”
The therapist nodded slowly. “And what comes up when you try to forget?”
Nyla fell silent.
In that instant, the room changed.
Darkness.
The smell of dampness. Suffocating air. Hands yanking her violently. Fabric pressed over her mouth. The sound of an engine. A hard impact. The world spinning—then nothing.
Nyla jolted to her feet.
“Stop!” she screamed. Her hands flew up instinctively, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “I don’t—I don’t want to—”
“Look at me,” the therapist commanded firmly. “Nyla, look at me.”
Nyla shook her head, but her eyes finally focused. The therapist’s face. The room. The light.
“You’re safe,” the woman said, unwavering. “This is now. Not then.”
Nyla collapsed back into the chair. Her sobs broke free—not restrained, not polite, but raw sounds she had buried for too long. Her shoulders shook. Her breathing fractured.
“I heard my own voice back then,” she said between sobs. “I was screaming, but… no one came. No one.”
The therapist shifted her chair a little closer. “And now you’re hearing it again.”
Nyla shook her head violently. “No. I don’t want to. I hate that voice. Weak. Begging.”
“Who told you that was weak?” the therapist cut in sharply.
Nyla froze.
“Who taught you that asking for help is weakness?” she continued.
Nyla opened her mouth, then closed it again. Names flickered through her mind. Faces. Old words.
“The world,” she said at last, bitterly. “People who only listen when I’m quiet.”
The therapist took a breath. “Then let’s change that.”
Nyla looked up. “How?”
“Speak,” she answered. “Not for them. For you.”
Silence fell again. But this time, Nyla did not run from it.
“I’m angry,” she said softly, then louder. “I’m angry because I’m always told to understand. To be patient. To stay quiet.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “I’m angry because I was treated like an object—something that could be moved, hurt, and then expected to return to normal.”
Her voice trembled, but it did not break.
“I’m angry because they took my voice… and I let them.”
The therapist nodded. “That’s not a confession. That’s awareness.”
Nyla wiped her face roughly. “Sometimes I want to scream in front of everyone. Sometimes I want to hide for the rest of my life.”
“Both are valid,” the therapist replied immediately. “The question is: what do you want right now?”
Nyla was silent for a long time.
“I want… my voice back,” she said finally. “But I don’t want my voice to be used by other people.”
The therapist smiled faintly. “Then we’ll set boundaries.”
She slid a notebook toward Nyla. “Write. Not for the court. Not for the media. For yourself.”
Nyla stared at the pen as if it were something foreign.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with the most honest sentence,” the therapist said. “The one you’re most afraid of.”
Nyla took a deep breath. The pen touched the paper.
Her hand shook.
I’m afraid that if I speak, I’ll lose control.
The writing was messy. Uneven. But real.
She wrote again.
I’m afraid that if I stay silent, I’ll lose myself.
Tears dripped onto the paper. Nyla didn’t wipe them away.
“I’m not writing to imprison anyone,” she whispered as she continued. “I’m writing so I’m no longer locked inside.”
The therapist didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush her. There was only the sound of the pen and breathing.
A few minutes later, Nyla set the pen down. Her hand ached. Her chest still felt tight—but lighter.
“How does it feel?” the therapist asked.
“Painful,” Nyla answered honestly. “But… honest.”
The therapist nodded. “There’s one more thing you may want to consider.”
Nyla raised an eyebrow.
“Testifying,” the therapist said carefully. “Not as an obligation. As a choice.”
Nyla stiffened. “I don’t want to be forced.”
“And you won’t be,” the therapist replied firmly. “You can set conditions. Boundaries. Your way.”
Nyla looked down at the floor. “If I speak… I’m afraid they’ll twist everything.”
“They might,” the therapist said truthfully. “But this time, you’re not alone. And you don’t have to explain everything.”
Nyla lifted her head. “I want to speak… in my own way.”
“And that’s enough,” the therapist said.
The session ended. Nyla stood, her shoulders still tense, but her steps steadier. At the door, she paused and turned back.
“Thank you,” she said. “For not telling me to be strong.”
The therapist smiled warmly. “You don’t need to be strong. You need to be honest.”
Outside the building, the late afternoon air greeted her. Nyla stood still for a moment, closed her eyes, and felt the wind against her face.
The old voices were still there in her head. But now, there was a new one—clearer.
Her own.
She opened her eyes, looked at the darkening sky, and whispered softly—yet firmly, like a vow to herself:
“My voice is not a weapon. It is a right.”