Shame Tastes Familiar

I didn’t want to go.

Every part of me wanted to skip today section.

Fake a cold.

Say I was busy.

Say I was fine.

But I showed up anyway—like always. Dressed in the same oversized hoodie I wore the night Jason showed up. I hadn’t washed it. It still smelled like dirt. And the feeling of guilt was all over me.

Lane’s door was open. His back was turned as he scribbled something in his notebook.

“Five minutes early,” he said, without looking. “That’s either progress or punishment.”

I didn’t answer.

Just sat down slowly, hands tucked between my thighs like a child trying not to fidget.

He glanced up then. His eyes scanned me like he was reading a page.

“Rough week?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Define rough.”

Lane leaned back in his chair, eyes still calm, still steady. “You look like someone who hasn’t slept.”

“I slept,” I said. “Just not... well.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I said too fast. “It’s fine.”

“Amelia,” he said gently, “if you’re here just to say you’re fine, we can end early.”

That stung.

I looked at the floor. “Jason came by.”

His jaw didn’t move, but his pen froze in midair.

I kept going, voice light. “He just wanted to talk. Say hi. Nothing dramatic.”

“You didn’t let him in, right?”

I hesitated.

And that was all he needed.

His pen dropped. “You opened the door.”

I looked at him sharply. “Just a crack.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see his face again,” I said honestly. “Because I wanted to remember how awful he was.”

Lane didn’t reply.

I swallowed hard. “He didn’t do anything.”

“But he didn’t need to,” Lane said quietly. “He just had to show up. That’s the danger.”

I hated that he was right.

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

I looked up, surprised.

Lane leaned forward slightly, hands folded. “You’re not here because you’re promiscuous. You’re here because you’ve spent years letting the wrong people define your worth.”

I rolled my eyes. “Spare me the TED Talk.”

But the words lodged in my chest like thorns.

He didn’t flinch.

“I know you’re angry,” he said. “But you’re not angry at me.”

“No?” I said. “Then why do I want to throw this chair at your head?”

“Because you’re mad that Jason still has power over you.”

I stood up.

“You’re mad that a man who hurt you can still make your hands shake. You’re mad that part of you liked being seen by him, even if it came wrapped in shame.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re mad because I saw it the second you walked in.”

“Lane—”

“And you’re madder,” he said, voice rising, “because I don’t look at you like he did. I see you, and I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s when it broke.

Not a sob.

Not a scream.

But a quiet, ugly sound that cracked out of my chest before I could hold it in.

My knees buckled. I sat hard on the couch again. My hands were shaking. My throat burned.

“Don’t say you see me,” I said through clenched teeth. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I do see you, Amelia.”

“Then stop,” I whispered. “Stop looking at me like I’m worth something.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because it hurts more than being used?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to trap the tears. Trying to shove them back into the place where I keep all the other things I don’t let people see.

I failed.

A tear slid down.

Lane didn’t hand me a tissue.

He didn’t cross the room.

He just sat there. Silent. Still.

Safe.

And that made it worse.

Because I couldn’t remember the last time someone made space for my pain instead of rushing to fix it.

I stood up again, fists clenched. “I can’t do this.”

“You are doing this.”

“I didn’t come here to cry,” I snapped.

“And yet, here you are.”

I backed away.

“Amelia—”

“I said stop!”

My voice cracked in the middle. I was losing it, right there in front of him, and I hated it.

He stayed seated, watching me like I was a storm he’d already decided to cope with.

“Come back when you’re ready to stop punishing yourself,” he said calmly.

I stormed out before I could collapse again.

Outside, the air was sharp, almost cold. The back of hand on my face as I tried to stop the remaining flood of tears from rolling down. I didn’t know where I was walking.

I just moved, fast and blind, like if I kept going far enough, I could outrun the truth.

That someone finally saw me,

And I wasn’t ready to be seen.