When Lucy settled into the waiting room, the urge to get up and run away crossed her mind. She was tortured by the thought of having to open up again, to speak, to externalize, to be vulnerable. But if she were honest with herself, Lucy knew she had put her own mental health aside for a whole list of reasons. The sessions with the LAPD therapist were just an exercise to get her back on the field—nothing more, nothing less.
And yet, in such a short time, Lucy had almost died twice. Technically, the first time, Tim had brought her back to life. The second time, death had nearly taken them both. And yet, every morning, despite carrying an enormous weight, she got up, pushed her problems aside, and plastered that smile on her face—the one everyone loved so much.
Her whole life had been a series of defeats rather than victories, of disillusionments, but she still considered herself lucky to be here, standing, alive, and doing the job she loved. But at what cost? At the cost of an even more complicated relationship with her parents, of seeing loved ones leave, die, and never return. Deep inside her boiled the injustice of always being stuck in the same place, of having failed her exam despite all her efforts. She didn't want to be put on a pedestal—no, she just wanted her work to be recognized, just like some of her male colleagues. But she was far too respectful of the rules and hierarchy to dare speak up, to point out this injustice.
And then, there was Tim. The man she was still hopelessly in love with, even after he had crushed her heart. The man she trusted—blindly. The man she had shared dreams, plans, and desires with. The man who, from one day to the next, had left her standing there in that parking lot without any real explanation. The man she had sex with a few weeks ago, without really knowing why. The man she had almost died with just a few days ago. Tim, her Tim.
"Lucy Chen?"
Lucy was pulled from her thoughts and stood up to follow the doctor. When she entered the room, she settled onto the couch and offered a small smile to the therapist, who took a seat across from her.
"How have you been since our last session?"
"Good, I think..."
"You think?"
"I... No, I'm angry."
"Explain."
"Where should I even start? That I almost died twice? That the people I love always seem to leave or die? That I never get to say goodbye? That my choices and decisions seem to mean so little to others? That maybe being a woman is holding me back from advancing in my career as fast as the men? He told me he loved me, and me? I said nothing. I said nothing because I'm scared of getting burned again. And I watch him—I see him changing, I see him getting better, I see him making all these efforts for himself and for me. And me? I'm stuck. I can't move forward, I can't make a decision. And if you only knew how angry I am—at him, at myself, at EVERYTHING. I need to breathe again. I need to live. I need to find my peace. I'm tired of being angry, of being sad, of having to pretend that everything is fine just because that's what people expect from me. Everyone expects me to be strong. But what if I'm not?"
"Have you talked to Tim?"
"To say what? He told me he still loved me, and when he asked if I felt the same, I told him it didn't matter."
"Why?"
"Because... Because admitting that I still loved him meant potentially saying goodbye. And I wasn't ready to say goodbye."
"And do you think he feels the same way?"
"I don't know..."
"Maybe you should ask him."
