𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 |𝟏𝟖+(HOLD)

VIII

I sit at the counter, eating my now cold eggs as I watch Amara rush around the kitchen cleaning up. My mind is consumed with her words from yesterday: that I'm worth it. But am I really? I questioned myself all night, unable to sleep from the endless thoughts swarming my mind.

"Hey, Heaven," Amara says, turning to lean against the counter. "I don't know your story, and I won't ask if you're not ready, but what do you think about therapy?" She fidgets with her fingers, waiting for my response.

"Therapy?" I ask. She nods. I'm not sure if I'm ready to tell my story yet, or if I'll ever be.

"You don't have to, but I want to help you." Every fiber of my being wants to trust her, to believe that if I take this step, I'll be better. But deep down, I know it won't be that easy; it's never that simple.

"I—I'll do it." Her eyes widen in shock before she jumps up, running my way and giving me a tight hug.

"I'm so glad." She hugs me, her vanilla scent filling my nose and wrapping me in warmth. She pulls back and gazes into my blue eyes. "If it gets too hard, you don't have to go," she says, her eyes never leaving mine.

Was I ready for this battle? I wasn't truly sure. My heart raced as my mind weighed heavily with a fight I knew I couldn't avoid forever—a battle full of demons I must conquer. Doubt weighed heavily on me, the fear that I might never be able to fend off these lingering demons. I desperately wanted to be strong, but they clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh, crisp air. My body still lingered with that deep-seated feeling of failure, the belief that I'll never be enough. But for once, I wanted to be strong—not just for others, but for myself.

                                ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

I stand, looking up at the tall building that seems to stretch endlessly.

"Good luck, girl. Call me if you need anything," she waves through the car window before pulling away. I'm left alone with just my thoughts. I'm scared—scared of what will happen.

I take slow, cautious steps towards the tall glass doors before opening them. My ears are instantly flooded with the sound of chatter. I feel overwhelmed as my palms begin to sweat. I want to run and never come back, but I want to do this for Amara. She wants me to get better.

I walk to the front desk, taking in the grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the hundreds of people scattered throughout the foyer.

"Hello, what can I do for you?" the receptionist asks with her brightly red lips and long blonde hair. She smiles at me as if it were routine, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.