𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄, pedri gonzález

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚, pedri

❝ i'm gonna get you back. ❞
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

After seeing Olive in another's man hands last night, especially that son of a bitch, I just, I couldn't do it anymore.

I'm done. I can't not be with her anymore. It's getting too damn hard instead of easier.

We went to a bar after the match last night. I couldn't pick up one woman. As much as I tried, every time one would start introducing herself or simply smiling, I'd just give up after it.

I couldn't bare pretending that getting laid in a hotel room was what I needed. The only thing I needed was Olive. Yet, she was out with another man.

And all I could think of all night long was what they might've been doing. She may say they're just friends, but sometimes it escalates, no? Especially with the way he was looking at her, I have no doubt he wants her.

My imagination kept running wilder and wilder. From a simple hug to him caressing her thigh to kissing her to...

I'm done with pretending that Olive is not the woman I love. Because she is. She is. She fucking is! She's the only one I want.

She's the face I want to wake up to in the morning. The face I want to see last before falling asleep.

She's the one I want to be kissing. The one I want to hold. The one I want to protect. Just, the one I want. Forever and ever.

Sleeping around is simply, not my thing anymore. She's my thing. She's my everything.

And however I hate it. I think Isabel was right. The only solution to everything is to get help. Professional help. A therapist.

Which is why I called him this morning and reserved an appointment for tonight. Which happens to start in a couple of minutes.

I sit in the waiting room. The faint hum of the air conditioner fills the silence, but it's kind of stressing me out even more I might just climb on the chair and break the damn ac.

My palms are sweaty, my leg bouncing up and down uncontrollably.

This is the first time I've ever stepped foot in a therapist's office for myself. It feels completely weird. I'm never here for me, only for Isa.

The door opens, and Dr. Iglesias, a man in his early fifties, steps out. "Pedri? Please, come in."

I stand and follow him into the office. I've never actually entered it. I'm really scared.

It's a cozy space, decorated with soft colors and comfortable furniture. Super different than I'd imagined. He gestures to the couch and I sit.

Dr. Iglesias settles into a chair across from me, a notebook in hand. "How are you feeling today?" He asks, his voice calm and steady.

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I'm here," I mutter, not quite sure what else to say.

He nods, understanding. "I know this isn't easy for you, Pedri. You're doing something very brave by being here."

"Sure, okay." I gulp, looking at anything but him.

"You've been through a lot." He says gently. "You've had to be strong for Isabel and for yourself for so long. It's okay to need help. It's okay to not be okay."

This is so cliché. I'm already starting to regret coming.

I shift uncomfortably, my eyes darting around the room. "Isa talks about you," I say, trying to deflect. "She says you've helped her a lot." That's the only reason I'm still sitting here.