Chapter 4

The walk back to his dorm felt different. The evening air wasn’t just cold; it felt clean. The streetlights weren’t just bright; they cast warm, hopeful pools on the pavement. For the first time in years, the heavy blanket of despair had lifted slightly, allowing a sliver of light to touch him. He felt… lighter. The crushing weight on his chest had eased, just a little.

He replayed the session in his head. Paul’s calm voice. The understanding in his eyes. “It’s a treatable condition.” The words were a mantra, a shield against the familiar voice of shame that usually hissed in his ear. He didn’t think I was disgusting. He thought I was hurt.

Emily was in their shared living space, working on her laptop. She looked up as he entered. “Hey. You look… better.” Her tone was cautious, observational.

Leonard managed a small, genuine smile. “I feel better. Just… went for a walk. Cleared my head.” The lie came easier this time, coated in the afterglow of his session. He wasn’t ready to share this. This fragile, new hope felt too precious, too private. What if he told Emily and she questioned it? What if she said it was inappropriate? He couldn’t risk it. This was his chance.

“A walk, huh?” Emily didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “Well, I’m glad it helped. You want to order some pizza?”

“Maybe later,” he said, heading towards his bedroom. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on.” Another lie. He closed his door and immediately opened his laptop. His fingers trembled with a strange mix of fear and excitement as he typed into the search bar: PTSD symptoms.

The screen filled with lists. He read them, his heart pounding.

  Re-experiencing the trauma: nightmares, flashbacks. Yes.

  Avoidance: staying away from reminders, feeling numb. Yes.

  Hyperarousal: being easily startled, feeling tense, trouble sleeping. Yes, yes, yes.

  Negative changes in beliefs and feelings: guilt, shame, feeling detached from others. A resounding, painful yes.

It was all there. It wasn’t just in his head. It had a name. Paul was right. He wasn’t a freak; he was someone with an injury, a psychological wound that had never healed. A wave of validation washed over him, so powerful it brought fresh tears to his eyes. He wasn’t crazy. He was sick. And sickness could be treated.

He clicked on another link: Coping Mechanisms for PTSD.

The article talked about therapy, about healthy outlets. And then it mentioned maladaptive coping mechanisms—substance abuse, reckless behavior, compulsive behaviors… like the one he used. The article explained that these were desperate attempts to regain a sense of control, to numb the pain. It wasn’t a choice; it was a survival instinct gone wrong.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. For a decade, he had believed the problem was him—his weakness, his perversion. Now, a renowned psychology professor and every reputable medical website he could find were telling him the problem was the trauma, and his actions were just a symptom. It was a paradigm shift that cracked the foundation of his self-hatred.

He thought about Paul again. He knew. He saw it right away. A sense of awe mixed with the gratitude. Paul wasn’t just kind; he was brilliant. He had seen through Leonard’s shame and recognized the real issue in a single, awkward question in a crowded classroom.

Later, when he finally joined Emily for pizza, he was quiet, lost in his thoughts.

“You sure you’re okay?” Emily asked, handing him a plate. “You seem… distant. But in a different way. Not sad, just… preoccupied.”

“I’m good, Em. Really,” he said, and this time, it felt closer to the truth. He was preoccupied with hope. He was building a secret world in his mind, a world where he got better, a world where Professor Weston—Paul—was his guide.

But underneath the hope, a tiny, cold knot of anxiety remained. He was hiding this from Emily, his best friend. He was lying. And he was meeting alone, regularly, with his incredibly attractive, powerful professor. The situation was a tinderbox. One spark, and this new, fragile hope could explode into a scandal that would ruin him.

That night, he went to bed early. The nightmare still came, but it felt different. The monster was still there, but now, in the dream, a door appeared. A door he hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t open it, but the simple fact that it was there, a possible escape, made the terror feel less absolute.

Before he fell asleep, he checked his phone. There was a new email.

From: Paul Weston

Subject: Appointment Confirmation

Leonard,

It was good to talk with you today. I’ve reserved our usual time for next Wednesday. Looking forward to continuing our work.

Best,

Paul

Leonard read the email three times. Our work. It sounded so collaborative, so professional. And yet, the use of his first name, the simple “Paul” at the end, sent a small, illicit thrill through him. He was special. Paul wasn’t just his professor; he was his confidant, his healer.

He fell asleep with the phone still in his hand, a small smile on his face, completely unaware that the door in his dream was not an exit, but the entrance to a beautifully crafted cage.