Invisible String | Lovertation

November 27

This is my eighth therapy session. Yeah, it's kind of dumb that I have to go every day. But it's whatever.

At this point, I've stopped fighting it. It's just another thing I have to do, like brushing my teeth or pretending I don't see my mom looking at me like I'm made of glass. Routine.

I walk into the waiting area, the same dull rooms I've been in for the past week. It smells sterile, like disinfectant and something vaguely floral. The walls are beige, the chairs are stiff, and the receptionist looks like she stopped caring about life years ago.

And then I see her.

She's been here as long as I have. Maybe longer. I've seen her in passing, but I've never really noticed her until now.

She's blonde, effortlessly so, her hair in a messy ponytail that still somehow looks good. Strand fall loose, framing her face in a way that makes her look both gorgeous and completely over it. She's around my height—maybe a little shorter—but something about her makes her seem taller. Like she takes up space in a way that demands attention without even trying.

She's on the phone, pacing slightly, her free hand gesturing as she talks. Or argues, more like. Her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, and her face is blotchy in that I've been crying for way too long kind of way. Her voice is sharp, low, like she's trying to keep it together but isn't quite managing.

And then she stops.

She pulls the phone away from her ear, staring at it like it just personally betrayed her. Then she lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale, pressing her fingers to her temples.

I don't think—I just walk over.

"Hey," I say. "Are you okay?"

It's a stupid question, obviously. No one here is okay. But I don't know what else to say.

She looks up, startled, like she wasn't expecting anyone to notice her. She immediately wipes at her face, trying to fix the mess crying left behind.

"Yeah," she says automatically, then sighs. "I mean, no. Not really. But, kinda?" She shakes her head, letting out a short, humorless laugh. "My girlfriend just broke up with me."

And I should probably be focused on the fact that she's clearly upset, but my brain latches onto one thing and one thing only: Oh. She's gay.

Not in a bad way. Not in a judgmental way. In a holy shit, thank God way.

Because she's hot. Like, really hot. And now I know there's at least a chance.

I push that thought aside—because, you know, not the time—and reach out to pat her shoulder. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

She nods, sniffling. "Yeah. I mean, I kind of saw it coming. We'd been fighting a lot. But it still fucking sucks, y'know?"

"I get it," even though I really don't. I haven't been in a relationship in a while. I don't even know if I remember what it's like to let someone in like that. To let them close enough to hurt me.

She lets out a breath, shaking her head like she's trying to physically shake off the emotions. "It's whatever. I'll live."

"You will," I say. "Being single really isn't all that bad. I mean, look at me. I haven't had a girlfriend in a while, and I'm doing great." I gesture vaguely to myself. "Daily therapy, unprocessed trauma, all that fun stuff."

She actually laughs—a real, genuine laugh that makes something in my chest tighten.

"Thanks," she says, then tilts her head slightly, looking at me like she's just noticing something. "Holy shit, you're, like, really pretty."