REVERiE - the man with the whiskey

chapter 0

I hadn't expected to stay this long in Harrowbridge. Then again, I hadn't expected a lot of things - like the fact that adulthood was basically just a series of "what now?" moments strung together by questionable life choices and far too much coffee.

When I first got here, I told myself it was temporary. You know, a brief detour on my way to greatness or whatever it is people call finding their purpose. I had this fancy psychology degree and all these grand ideas about helping people. Classic bright-eyed Ivy, thinking I'd change the world one therapy session at a time. I was going to be the therapist people actually liked; the one who wore colorful socks and gave out life-changing advice while drinking artisanal tea.

Turns out, people's problems are heavy, and all the tea in the world couldn't stop me from feeling like I was drowning in them.

College had been one big blur of all-nighters and caffeine binges, but I'd managed to convince myself that once I got out, once I started working, everything would click into place. And for a while, it did. I landed a job at a mental health clinic and dove in headfirst. I loved the idea of being that person someone could turn to when the world felt too overwhelming. I wanted to make a difference - needed to, really. But somewhere along the line, I forgot to set any boundaries between their pain and mine.

It's funny how you can think you're totally prepared for something, only to realize you're not even close. I thought I could just handle it, you know? Be the strong, capable Ivy who helped others unlock their trauma like it was some sort of emotional escape room. But the more sessions I had, the more everything started to blend together. Their problems seeped into my head, and soon I wasn't just carrying my own stuff; I was carrying theirs too.

There was one patient, Sarah. Mid-thirties, had been through more than I could ever imagine. Every time I saw her, I felt this overwhelming pressure to fix everything for her, but I didn't have the answers she needed. The more I tried, the more I felt like I was failing. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, hearing her voice in my head, her pain becoming my own.

I wasn't strong enough. Not for this.

So I did what any emotionally competent adult would do - I ran. Well, okay, not ran exactly, but I definitely packed up my life and moved to Harrowbridge faster than you could say "avoidance." It was far enough away that I wouldn't have to deal with awkward family reunions or, worse, explanations. It felt easier to disappear for a while, to find some quiet corner of the world where I could just exist without all the expectations hanging over my head.

Harrowbridge was supposed to be a pit stop. A "hey, let me figure out my life" moment. I wasn't planning to get stuck here. But somehow, here I am. Two years later. Still stuck.

I kind of fell into bartending at The Dizzy Duck. I walked in one day, no plan, just looking for anything to pay the rent while I "figured things out." It was supposed to be temporary, but temporary has a funny way of turning into permanent when you're not paying attention. Now, I know the regulars by name, can pull off a half-decent cocktail, and am weirdly good at dodging awkward pickup lines with a laugh and a "nice try, bud."

The thing is, the bar? It's safe. Loud, messy, and a little chaotic, sure, but it's safe. I don't have to think too hard about life when I'm here. I just lose myself in the rhythm; pour drinks, make people laugh, listen to Lucy's endless stories about her latest adventures anytime she visits. It's easier than trying to figure out what comes next. Easier than going back to what I left behind.

But every now and then, I hear that voice in the back of my head; the one that sounds suspiciously like my mom. It's that quiet, disappointed tone she gets when she talks about "my potential." You know, the potential I'm apparently wasting by slinging drinks instead of unlocking people's emotional trauma.