Recovering from a depressive episode, a college student, Irina Bowman, transfers to a new location in hopes for a fresh start.
Upon making new friends, she meets Nathan Lovecraft, the quiet campus heartthrob who also happens to be her roommates bo...
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Warnings || This story contains elements that some may find offensive, harmful, or degrading. Content includes depression, slang, foul language, sexual harassment/assault, toxic behaviors, mentally and emotionally abusive relationships, unhealthy obsession, toxic romance, kidnapping, stalking, bullying, and sexual themes that may include non-consensual/dub-consensual acts.
"Did you have anything else to add on to your last journal entry?"
Tips of her fingers tap against the kneecap in a monotone pattern as her cheek spools against a propped palm.
"Irina?" her therapist speaks in a calm yet expectant tone.
Sighing out a breath, she adjusts her posture; the literal sense of boredom escaping her lips. Attempting to conceal the brazen countenance, she clears her throat—trying to be more subtle in exposing the unproductive reflection of the last hour. She appreciated her therapist's tenacity, at least he was trying, which was more than what she could say for friends and family. "I'm sorry...I was zoning out."
Her voice was calm and airy. In a visual sense it was like watching the morning fog being lifted from the warmth of spring. "It's okay. Let's go ahead and wrap things up—as for your tasks, I want you to continue writing out your thoughts, and I'd like to see you back here in a week."
Inscribing his personal notes, he drafts a reminder for the upcoming appointment. Irina subtly nods while collecting her bag and jacket. "Sure. Thanks."
Ever so composed, she gracefully sees herself out. Unsure of how much more she could take of these clinical visits. It would be so nice if everyone could leave her alone and forget about everything. Surely, the best course of action would be to pretend that nothing happened, yet the harsh stares from her peers and constant whispers whenever she walks by served as a daily reminder of her erratic and unexpected meltdown. Her parents continued to ask her what caused it, which became less sincere and more irritating as she couldn't pin it down to a single cause—there were multiple events that led to it. The worst part was that she couldn't fully explain it.
Perhaps it was the overridden fear of being judged—misjudged at that. Or maybe it was the worry of placing time and effort in pouring out her heart and not receiving the response she needed in return. It was bad enough that both her parents waved their hand and treated it as if it were just a minuscule thing, whereas her friends gave her the whole "don't worry, it will get better" pass, as if they couldn't come up with something more sincere or original.
At the end of the day, it didn't matter. It was her fault to begin with, since she kept a huge part of her life a secret from those closest to her. She did it for the right reasons—out of loyalty and respect, yet she ended up shooting herself in the foot. Should she have known better? If so, how could it possibly be foreknown? That the boy she fell for would ultimately stab her in the back. No wonder he wanted their relationship to be kept hush-hush; he guise the reasoning under an excuse that his family would object to it, expressing that they only wanted for him to focus on his studies. The idea of true love blinded her from ever doubting his honesty, or lack thereof.
