~ ROSELLE ~

I arrive at Dr. Morrison’s office just in time, 9:00 a.m. on the dot.

As usual, she’s seated in one of her elegant chairs, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her gaze fixed on the computer screen in front of her.

The moment she notices me, her face lights up with a warm smile. I settle onto the comfortable couch across from her, and she smiles even wider.

"Morning, Roselle," she says, looking up with a warm smile. "You look brighter today. That’s nice to see. So, how have things been since our last session?"

I take a slow breath and begin signing, hands moving steadily as I pour out everything—the visit to Westbrook, the confrontation with Warren, the fifty-percent share, the shower incident, waking up this morning feeling lighter... and the way my voice slipped out yesterday when I shrieked. I even confess how badly I want to say Ronan’s name.

She listens patiently, nodding, occasionally jotting notes.

"That’s wonderful, Roselle," she says gently. "Do you know what that means? Your body is beginning to trust that it’s safe again. The fact that you’re making sounds now—even unintentionally—is a really positive sign. It means that grip the trauma had on your voice is starting to loosen,"

I nod, tears beginning to form in my eyes.

"I want to speak his name," I sign, my hands trembling slightly. "I want to look at him and say ’Ronan’ out loud. But every time I try, it gets stuck somewhere in my throat."

"That’s completely normal," Dr. Morrison says gently. "Your voice was stolen from you at a crucial moment of trauma. Reclaiming it isn’t about forcing it. It’s about feeling safe enough that your body decides to release it on its own."

She pauses, letting that sink in.

"Tell me about Ronan. How do you feel when you’re with him?"

I consider the question carefully, my mind immediately drifting to Ronan. I picture him smiling down at me, his gentle touches, handing me Rose, standing up for me, protecting me. Warmth blooms in my chest as the memories settle over me.

Then I raise my hands and sign. "I feel safe and protected and maybe I’m finally allowed to exist and my pain matters to him."

"And do you believe that’s true?" Dr. Morrison asks.

I hesitate, then nod slowly.

"I’m beginning to," I sign.

"That’s significant progress, Roselle," she says, her voice filled with quiet pride. "A few weeks ago, you believed you were worthless. You blamed yourself for everything that happened and thought you didn’t deserve kindness or protection. Now you’re telling me that your pain matters and that you matter. That’s a remarkable step forward."

She leans back in her chair.

"I want to try something, if you’re willing. I want you to close your eyes and think about Ronan. Think about a moment with him that made you feel safe, really picture it, allow yourself to feel it. And then, when you’re ready, I want you to try to say his name, don’t force it. Just let it come naturally if it wants to."

I close my eyes.

Images flood my mind, Ronan’s eyes watching me with absolute certainty, his hand holding mine as we walked into Westbrook, the way he kissed my forehead last night, the breakfast he made this morning. The way he looked at me in the shower, hungry and possessive and absolutely devoted.

My chest expands. My throat opens.

"Ronan," I voice, my eyes widening in disbelief. I’m in awe of myself... in awe that I did it... that I said his name on the very first try.

Dr. Morrison’s eyes are shining with tears.

"You did it, Roselle," she cheer softly. "You reclaimed a piece of yourself. Your voice is coming back. And it’s going to keep coming back, one word at a time, one moment of safety at a time."

I open my eyes, and I’m crying—really crying, tears streaming down my face as the realization crashes over me.

The session ends with Dr. Morrison reminding me to be patient with myself, to keep practicing, to lean into moments of safety. I leave her office floating, my hand pressed to my chest as if I can hold this feeling inside forever.

The elevator doors to leave the medical building are just ahead. I press the button and wait as they slide open with a soft whoosh.

Suddenly, the sound of small feet pattering across the floor catches my attention. I turn just in time to see a little boy, no older than five or six, racing toward the closing elevator doors. A toy truck is clutched tightly in one hand, while a small blue backpack bounces against his shoulders with every hurried step. His eyes are locked on the narrowing gap, determined to make it inside before the doors slide shut.

"Wait!" he shouts, his small voice echoing through the hallway.

But with how fast it’s closing, he’s not going to make it. The doors are already sliding shut, the gap narrowing with each passing second. And his backpack strap, the long strap hanging from one shoulder—is directly in the path of those closing doors.

Everything happens in slow motion and at lightning speed simultaneously. The strap catches between the doors, and the elevator begins to move, ready to descend with the strap, and the child attached to it, caught in its grip.

Without thinking, I lunge forward.

My hand shoots out and slams down on the emergency stop button with all the force I can muster. The button is red and demanding, and my palm connects with it hard enough that pain shoots up my arm.

The elevator lurches to a stop. But the backpack strap is still caught, and the child is panicking, his small body thrashing, trying to pull away from the closing doors.

I reach down and firmly grab the boy’s shoulders, stabilizing him. With my other hand, I work to free the strap from between the doors.

The boy is crying now, scared and disoriented.

I pull gently on the strap, trying to work it free without yanking too hard and hurting him. The edges of the door are sharp, and my fingers brush against them as I work to loosen the fabric.

Pain lances through my hand. I’ve cut myself. Blood wells up along my palm and fingers where I’ve scraped them against the door mechanism, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. This child is terrified, and I’m the only one here to help.

With one final, careful pull, the strap comes free.

The boy tumbles backward into my arms, and I catch him, cradling his small, trembling body against my chest.

The elevator doors slide open fully, and I step out, still holding the boy, my right hand bleeding.

That’s when his mother appears, running from the direction of the waiting area, her face a mask of pure terror.

"Marcus!" she screams, her voice breaking. "Oh the moon goddess, Marcus!"

She rushes toward us, and I gently hand the boy over to her. She collapses to her knees, pulling him into her arms, sobbing with relief.

"Thank you," she gasps out, looking up at me with gratitude and horror in her eyes. "Thank you so much. He could have... if you hadn’t—"

She notices my bleeding hand, and her eyes widen.

"You’re hurt," she says, reaching for my hand. "Let me, we need to get that cleaned. Please, come with me. It’s the least I can do."

I shake my head, waving my hands in a gesture to say I’m fine. Her face immediately furrows into a frown as she opens her mouth to press the issue.

Luckily, before she can, Celeste walks in, quickly offering to take care of it.

I glance down at my bleeding hand and wince. Ronan is really not going to like this.