Tell Me I’m Real

Sometimes, silence can feel louder than a scream.

Today was definitely one of those days for me.

Sitting on Lane’s couch, I had my arms crossed, one leg bouncing like it was trying to escape. I wasn’t even pretending to be okay. No facade, no flirting, no smirk—just me. Quiet. Unfiltered.

He didn’t push me to talk.

He was across from me as usual—legs relaxed, hands resting loosely, his expression unreadable. But this time, I noticed how he was watching me. Not like I was a patient. Not like I was a girl with too many red flags. More like someone who’s waiting for a truth I hadn’t had the guts to voice.

And suddenly, the silence felt overwhelming.

“You ever think,” I blurted out, “about how things might’ve turned out differently if just one thing in your life had changed?”

Lane took a moment before slowly nodding.

“All the time,” he replied.

I stared at the floor, my throat tightening.

“My thing,” I said, my voice breaking a little, “was a man. I was nine.”

His entire body tensed up.

It felt like the atmosphere shifted between us. The temperature dropped. The space around us felt both constricted and expansive.

I couldn’t bring myself to look up.

“He wasn’t a stranger,” I whispered. “He wasn’t some monster lurking in the shadows. He was... my mom’s boyfriend.”

My fingernails dug into the couch cushion. I barely noticed the sting in my palms.

“I told her,” I murmured. “Once, I told her. She said I was just seeking attention.”

Still, Lane didn’t say anything.

Good. If he had, I probably would’ve clammed up.

“It started with little things,” he went on. “Lingering hugs. Sitting too close. Kisses on the cheek that felt all wrong. poking his fingers into my pussy.

till one night it wasn’t just a kiss anymore.”

Finally, I looked up.

Lane wasn’t blinking.

But his knuckles were white, clenched like he was stopping himself from saying or doing something.

That made something inside me twitch.

“You look like you want to break something,” I remarked.

“I do,” he replied softly.

My heart did a flip.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever shared all this with,” I confessed. “The whole story. The age. Who it was.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Lane said, his voice steady yet quiet.

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“I used to think that if someone just held me tight enough, it would somehow erase what he did,” I said. “But it never did. I’d have sex, and afterward, I felt like a stranger in my own skin.”

Lane leaned forward a bit, but he stayed silent. His eyes never left mine.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” I asked.

He blinked sharply, deliberately. “No.”

“Broken?”

“Not in the way you think,” he answered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Then how?”

“You’re hurt,” he said. “Not broken. There’s a difference. Broken things don’t feel pain. Hurt ones do.”

That hit me hard.

I looked down again. “He made me believe I was only good for one thing, and eventually, I stopped trying to be anything else.”

There was a pause. I could hear the clock ticking behind me. Each tick felt like an unwelcome breath I didn’t know how to take.

“You’re more than that,” Lane said gently.

“No offense,” I muttered, “but you don’t really know me.”

“I know what pain looks like when it’s trying not to scream,” he countered.

I looked up.

He was holding my gaze this time.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like prey under his stare. I felt… seen. Not just as a body. But as someone who was fighting to exist in her own skin.

“Lane,” I breathed, more like a whisper than a word.

His name felt heavy on my tongue.

He leaned back a bit, likely sensing I was reaching for something too delicate. But his eyes remained locked on mine.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” I said, surprising even myself. “I just… want you to believe me.”

“I do.”

I’m not sure why that made tears well up in my eyes.

Maybe because it was the first time I truly believed someone meant it.

I blinked quickly and wiped my face. I hated crying in front of people. It made me feel weak. But with Lane, it didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like bleeding in front of a doctor who knew how to stitch without asking stupid questions.

After a bit of quiet, Lane asked, “Do you want to do a grounding exercise?”

I nodded.

He stood up, walked over to the bookshelf, and grabbed a textured pillow, a smooth stone, and a leather-bound book.

He placed each item on the coffee table in front of me.

“Pick one,” he said. “Then describe how it feels.”

I reached for the stone.

“It’s cold. Smooth. Heavy.”

“Now close your eyes,” he instructed, “and hold it. Focus on how real it is. Just concentrate on that.”

I did.

And for a few moments, I wasn’t a nine-year-old girl. I wasn’t dirty or someone who had been used and discarded, rewritten.

I was Amelia.

Alive.

Holding a stone.

When I opened my eyes, he was still watching me. Not with pity. Not with sadness. Just… presence.

And that was enough.

I set the stone down and exhaled.

“I don’t want to be the girl who can’t be touched without breaking,” I said. “I want to feel like I belong in my own skin.”

“You will,” Lane replied, with more confidence than I had in myself.

I stood up, feeling an urge to leave before I turned into something too raw to face.

“I should go.”

He didn’t try to stop me.

But just as I was about to open the door, he said quietly, “Thank you for telling me the truth, Amelia. You’re not alone anymore.”

I turned slightly, gave him a soft nod, and stepped outside.

The hallway felt colder than the office. Maybe it was just me.

I pulled out my phone to check the time, and that’s when I noticed it.

A message.

No name. Just a number I didn’t recognize.

“You can tell him all your secrets. He won’t save you.”

I stared at the screen, my heartbeat slowing... then racing again.

My hands began to shake.

No one was supposed to know I confided in him.

No one was supposed to know.

And yet… someone did.

Someone was watching.