Cold air hit my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I pulled my black hoodie tighter, tugging the sleeves down to cover my fingers. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, trying to find some comfort. The scent of lavender filled the air—soothing, calming. But no amount of white walls or sweet fragrances could reach the darkness inside me.
The room around me was sterile, almost painfully bright. Everything was white—so white, it felt like the walls were trying to cleanse me of something they could never touch. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, each tick louder than the last, a reminder of time slipping away, indifferent to my pain.
I was still stuck here.I lifted my gaze from my lap, and there he was—Dr. Skyrim. His eyes met mine, deep and warm, like dark coffee, drawing me in. His long, black hair framed his face like a dark halo, giving him an almost otherworldly presence. In his late twenties, he looked serene, calm, a stark contrast to the storm inside me. A faint blush tinged his cheeks, the only sign of vulnerability.He was dressed simply, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and yet he carried himself with an ease that was both comforting and unsettling.
The smile he gave me was gentle, the kind that made you feel at ease, like you were seen without judgment.
I felt my heart skip a beat, my pulse quickening as I spoke. "Do I have to talk more about him?"
My voice wavered, and a tear slipped down my cheek. It was supposed to help. All the advice he gave me, all the guidance. But none of it worked. I used to think he cared.The room seemed to fall silent after my words, the ticking clock suddenly deafening.
"You don't have to talk about anything you aren't ready to discuss, Grey," he said. His voice was smooth, melodic, a stark contrast to the jagged edges of my thoughts. "We go at your pace."
I glanced at the nameplate on the table behind him. "Dr. Skyrim."
The irony tasted like bile. He wasn't my therapist. He was my mother's. She worked as a nurse at this hospital; he was a consultant who came in once or twice a week. I never asked for this. I didn't think I needed saving. But my mother… she thought I was under "academic pressure." She thought I was stressed about grades.
She had no idea. She had no idea that the man sitting across from me, the one offering me water and gentle platitudes, was connected to the very reason I needed saving in the first place.
He was the reason everything fell apart.
I had been fine before him. Before that night. Before the storm ripped through my life and left me shattered on the floor of my own mind.
"Dealing with one-sided love can be incredibly challenging," Dr. Skyrim began, his tone careful, clinical yet soft.
"No, you don't get it!" I cut him off, my voice trembling, rising in volume. "Loving someone who doesn't love you back? That's one thing. That's just sad. But thinking someone loves you? Believing it? Feeling it? And then… bam." I slammed my hand against the arm of the chair, the sound cracking through the room. "It all comes crashing down. It's not heartbreak. It's… it's like being erased. It hurts so damn much."
My throat tightened, the words scraping against my vocal cords. My whole body trembled, the memory of his hands, his voice, the sudden, cold void where a person used to be.
"You can't get it until you go through it yourself."
I used to roll my eyes at people who got stuck in this kind of heartbreak. I thought it was simple: if they don't treat you right, just leave.
But now? I get it. The way they reel you in with promises, the way they make you believe. It's not that easy. It hurts. It really, really hurts.I grabbed the glass of water
Dr. Skyrim had left for me, trying to steady my shaking hands. I swallowed a few gulps, then set the glass down, trying to gather myself.His eyes never wavered. He was patient, understanding—like he had all the time in the world for me.
"You're overthinking," he said softly.
"Your mind is racing with what-ifs and regrets. You're replaying everything, imagining different scenarios. But listen, you can't keep blaming yourself for someone else's inability to love you the way you deserve." He paused, his voice warm with reassurance. "You'll get through this. I know you will. You've done it before. You always find a way."
His words wrapped around me like a blanket, warm and comforting, but I wasn't sure I believed him. How could I, when the pain felt endless?
"It's okay to feel this way, Grey," he continued, his voice steady. "It's okay to be angry, sad, confused. What matters is how you handle those feelings. You can't avoid the pain. You have to understand it, work through it. And you don't have to do it alone. I'm here for you. Always."
The room fell silent again. But this time, the silence didn't feel as oppressive. The hum of the heater, the ticking of the clock—they faded into the background.
I didn't have the strength to argue. I didn't have the strength to speak. So I just nodded.
Dr. Skyrim was right about one thing. The pain wasn't going away. The hole he left in me wasn't closing.
But maybe, just maybe, I could learn how to live with the bleeding.