Chapter 49

Chapter Forty-Nine

Ophelia

The counselor’s office is quiet, bathed in soft, natural light spilling through the half-closed blinds. The walls are painted a calming shade of blue, and a faint scent of lavender lingers in the air. I sit cross-legged on the plush armchair, my hands gripping the mug of chamomile tea she offered me earlier. It’s warm, soothing against my palms, even as my thoughts churn with everything I’m trying to untangle.

“We’re discussing yesterday’s texts with Haydn?” Dr. Morrison prompts gently, her pen poised over her notepad.

I nod, taking a slow breath. “He’s not perfect. Far from it. But he tries. He tries to be someone I can lean on, someone I can love. And the least I can do is be honest—with him and with myself.”

Her brow lifts slightly, encouraging me to go on.

“That’s the thing, though,” I say, staring into my tea as if the swirling steam holds the answers. “Being honest about my past, about the things I’m rediscovering, used to feel like betraying someone I used to be. Or maybe someone I thought I was.”

Dr. Morrison doesn’t rush me, doesn’t speak, just lets the silence stretch in a way that pulls more out of me.

“It’s hard, you know? Seeing the faults in someone who’s no longer here. When Keane was presumed dead, I forgave everything. Every fight, every mistake, every moment he let me down. You forgive and forget the bad parts because it feels wrong to hold on to them when they’re gone. You try to remember the good, put them on this pedestal, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. And I did that. I put him so high up, I couldn’t even see the cracks anymore.”

I let out a shaky laugh that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Then he came back. And suddenly, it was like the universe was telling me something. Like our love was stronger than death, stronger than anything. Like maybe I was wrong to move on, to love someone else. It felt like a sign.”

Dr. Morrison’s gaze is calm, her silence full of compassion. “And now, how are you feeling? We’ve been working on this for weeks.”

My throat tightens, the words clawing their way out. “When I saw him, all those old instincts came back. The need to save him, to fix him, to be everything he needed . . . and nothing I needed. It gripped me so tightly, I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t see that it wasn’t love. It was guilt.”

Her pen moves, the faint scratch against the paper grounding me.

“Survivor’s guilt,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “It’s this horrible, relentless feeling that I shouldn’t have made it out of that car. That I shouldn’t have been the one to walk away. And when Keane . . . when he was gone, I clung to the idea that if I had just done more, been more, maybe we wouldn’t have lost everything. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost everything.”

I glance up, meeting her gaze. “And then Haydn came along. And for the first time, I thought maybe I could have something good, something real. But every time I felt happy, every time I let myself love him, there was this voice in the back of my head whispering that I didn’t deserve it. That I shouldn’t be moving on.”

Dr. Morrison leans forward slightly, her tone gentle but firm. “And now?”

“Now . . . I see it. I see that I wasn’t saving Keane for him. I was saving him for me, to try to fix something in myself I didn’t know was still broken. I thought if I saved him, maybe I could save our baby too. Maybe I could rewrite the past, undo the loss.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I swallow hard, steadying myself. “But I can’t. And holding on to that guilt, that idea that I could’ve done more, isn’t helping anyone. It’s just keeping me stuck.”

“And Haydn?”

A small, bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. “He’s everything Keane couldn’t be. Not because he’s better or worse, but because he’s here. He shows up, even when it’s hard. And for the first time, I think I’m ready to meet him there. To show up for him the way he’s shown up for me.”

Dr. Morrison leans forward, her expression warm. “That’s growth, Ophelia. Meaningful growth. It’s a process of discovery. You’re not who you were, and you don’t have to be. You’re growing into someone stronger, someone who knows how to hold onto herself.”

I exhale, the truth of her words settling into place. “My next step,” I say, the words coming with more confidence now, “is to talk to Keane. One last time. I need to close that chapter the right way—for me. I’m heading to Seattle later today, and Constantine’s coming with me.”

“That’s a significant step. You’re not just confronting the past—you’re taking control of your narrative. That’s powerful.”

I set the mug down gently, my hands now resting easily on my lap. “It feels different this time. I’m not looking for anything from him. I’m not expecting answers or apologies. I just want to let go, for real.”

Dr. Morrison nods. “And that’s the key, isn’t it? You’re not seeking closure from him—you’re finding it in yourself. You’ve already done the hard work to get here. This is just the final piece.”

As she glances at the clock on her desk, signaling the end of our session, she looks back at me and says, “Before you go, I want you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Be proud of yourself. Look at how far you’ve come. Even as you take this next step, remember—it’s not about the destination. It’s about what you’ve already proven to yourself.”

“I will,” I say, and for the first time, I really mean it.

“Take care, Ophelia. You’ve earned this peace.”

As I step out, there’s no lingering doubt, no gnawing uncertainty. Just a quiet sense of purpose and a feeling I’ve fought so hard to claim: hope.