RACHEL

When my mom and dad first broke up, I went to a therapist for a while. She was nice. Soft-spoken, patient, always ready with a box of tissues in case I needed them. I never did. She had this way of making everything sound so clinical, like pain could be broken down into neat little stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Yadda yadda.

I remember sitting in her overstuffed chair, nodding along like I understood. Like I was on this perfect little trajectory through grief. But I wasn't. I didn't fit into her tidy boxes. I was angry, sure, but it was more than that. I was furious—furious at the world, furious at myself. Furious that no matter what I did, I couldn't fix things.

I wonder what she'd say now if I showed up in her office again.

"So," I'd start, leaning back in her chair like I owned the place. "I was hanging out with my friends one night. You know, normal teenage stuff. Except then this blue centaur alien shows up. He's dying, and his last big move is to give us this power—the ability to turn into animals. Cool, right? Except it comes with a catch. There's this alien race called the Yeerks, and they're trying to take over the world. They slither into your ear and control your brain. And once they're in, you're gone. Forever. Anyone could be one of them. Your teacher, your neighbor, your mom. Even you could be a Controller."

I'd pause, long enough for her to blink, then keep going.

"So my friends and I decide to fight back. Just us against an entire alien invasion. And sometimes we do okay. We sabotage their plans, save a few lives. But it's never enough. The fights keep coming, and no matter how many we win, another battle's right on our heels. And sometimes, we lose. Big time."

And then I'd tell her about David.

"David was just some guy, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I brought him into this fight because I didn't have a choice. At first, he was just another kid, like us. He made me feel… something. Or maybe it was just guilt, because I dragged him into this mess. But things went sideways. He wasn't just a kid. He was a traitor. And I had to survive him."

I'd pause again, letting the weight of those words sit heavy in the room. "Turns out, he wasn't just a danger to us—he was a danger to everyone. And I had to decide what to do about it."

She'd probably lean forward at that point, her pen hovering over her notepad. "And what did you decide?"

But I wouldn't tell her. I won't tell anyone.

The therapist would tilt her head, voice calm but probing. "Why did it have to be you? Why did you have to make the decision?"

I'd laugh, but it wouldn't be real. It would be sharp, bitter. "Because I'm Rachel. The fighter. The one who gets things done, no matter what. Jake probably didn't want to get his hands dirty, but he knew I could handle it."

My throat would tighten, my voice dropping lower. "That's who I am, right? The one who makes the hard choices. The one who does the things no one else wants to do."

She'd nod, waiting, her silence loud. "And how do you feel about that?"

My hands would tighten on the arms of the chair, knuckles going white. "I don't know," I'd whisper, barely audible. "Sometimes, it feels like it's the only thing I'm good at. And other times… I don't even know who I am anymore."

Her pen would stop, her eyes steady on me. "Do you think Jake was right? That you could handle it?"

And I'd say… I don't know. Maybe I'll never know.

Because the truth is, I don't let myself think about it. Not David, not any of it. I can't. If I do, if I start, I won't stop. I'll drown in it. So I distract myself. I fight, I move, I push forward. That's all I know how to do.

It's not just the missions, though. It's everything. Even school feels like a break sometimes, when I can get my brain to focus.

Then there's Marco.

I know I've been spending more time with him lately, but that's just another distraction. It has to be. Right? We laugh, we joke, we talk about anything except what's really going on. And for a while, it works. It feels normal. Almost. But I know better than to let myself think too much about it. About him. About how much he's been there for me.

Because Marco's just… Marco. He's steady. Reliable. Always there with some dumb joke or that smirk of his, like he's not worried about anything, even when I know he is. He checks on me, even when I'm not sure I deserve it.

It means something to me. More than I want to admit. But I can't let myself feel that, can't let myself trust it. Not when I can't even trust myself anymore.

Besides, what good would it do? Marco's better than me. He always has been. There's no way he'd see me that way—not after everything I've done, everything I've become.

Sometimes, I catch myself smiling at something he says, and for a moment, I forget. I forget the war, the losses, the things I've done. For just one second, I'm not Rachel the fighter. I'm just… me. And it scares me.

Because if I let myself want him—if I let myself believe he could want me—I'd have to face everything else I've been running from. And that's the one thing I can't do.

I wonder what the therapist would say now. She'd probably tell me I'm stuck in denial. And she wouldn't be wrong.

But denial's easier. It's safer. I'm just—distracted. And I think I have to be. Because if I stop moving, stop pretending, stop fighting for even a second? That's when everything will fall apart.

I'm fine. Really, I am. I'm just distracted. It's easier this way.