The cold, sterile office was a stark contrast to the vibrant, electric atmosphere of the premiere the night before. Yesterday had felt like a different world altogether. The dim lights, the buzz of excitement, the sea of faces—it had been an escape. An escape from everything that haunted her. In that moment, surrounded by flashing cameras and the glow of lights, she had felt alive in a way she hadn't in so long.

Priscilla sat rigid in the chair, the familiarity of the space doing nothing to ease the tension that thrummed through her. The air was too quiet, too still, contrasting starkly with the vibrant chaos of the premiere the night before. There, in that dimly lit room with its neutral tones, everything felt hollow—no warmth, no escape.

The premiere had been different. Bright lights, the buzz of excitement, the rush of people—everything had been alive, a distraction from everything she didn't want to face. Priscilla had escaped there, if only for a

The cold, sterile office felt like a tomb. Priscilla sat rigid in the chair, her posture tense, her hands clenched tightly on her lap. The familiarity of the space did nothing to soothe her; instead, it amplified the sense of suffocation that had been building since she walked in. The air was too quiet, too still, in contrast to the vibrant chaos of the premiere from just the night before. In that bright, bustling environment, she had found a temporary escape from the emotions she didn't want to face. Here, though, in the dimly lit room with its neutral tones and clinical vibe, everything felt hollow—no warmth, no distractions.

The premiere had been different. Bright lights, the hum of excitement, the rush of people filling the space with energy—everything had been alive, full of noise and life. It had been a distraction, a fleeting moment where she didn't have to think about what she was trying so hard to suppress. But now, sitting here, in this office with Dr. Hawkins, those moments felt like a dream she couldn't quite hold onto. The weight of her feelings crept back, stronger than ever. The contrast between the premiere and this moment felt unbearable.

"Priscilla," Dr. Hawkins began, his tone calm and measured, as though he already knew the response he was about to receive. "How have you been since I last saw you?"

Priscilla didn't move. Didn't look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the chipped corner of the desk in front of her, willing the questions away. The silence stretched, the kind of silence that made the quiet echoes of her own thoughts deafening.

Dr. Hawkins waited patiently, giving her time. She didn't answer, so he repeated the question gently. "How have you been?"

Priscilla let out a sigh, her breath a shallow escape. "Fine," she said, the word feeling hollow as it left her lips.

"Just 'fine'?" Dr. Hawkins asked, his voice a little softer this time, but still probing.

Priscilla shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. "I've been spectacular, doc."

Dr. Hawkins didn't smile. His gaze didn't falter. "Have you been sleeping well?"

Priscilla's arms crossed over her chest as if trying to shield herself from his questions. "I sleep."

"Eating?"

"Yeah, I eat," she replied, though the words felt distant, as if she were speaking about someone else.

"Any changes in your mood? Energy levels? Motivation?" His tone remained calm but persistent.

Priscilla didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between them, longer than she was comfortable with. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her arms tighter. Finally, she muttered, "No."

Dr. Hawkins studied her carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem a bit dismissive today. Is there something on your mind?"

Priscilla hesitated, but then shook her head. "No."

Dr. Hawkins sighed softly, his voice a little firmer. "Priscilla, we've talked about this before. You know that keeping things bottled up only—"

"Look," she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. "I'm just here because my dad makes me be here. Not because I need to be."

Dr. Hawkins leaned back slightly, his expression calm but knowing. "Your dad cares about you, Priscilla. He just wants to make sure you're okay."

"I am fine," she insisted again, more to herself than him. "Nobody asks James once a week if he's fine."

Dr. Hawkins didn't respond immediately, letting her words hang in the air. His silence was more powerful than any words he could have spoken. Finally, he spoke again, his tone patient. "Alright, let's talk about last night. The premiere. How did it feel for you?"

Priscilla shrugged, not looking up. "It was whatever."

"Whatever?" Dr. Hawkins repeated, his tone steady. "You didn't even feel a hint of satisfaction at all your hard work, not a glimmer of happiness when you saw Leah, Aryan, even Walker?"

Priscilla clenched her jaw tighter, trying to keep the flood of emotions from bubbling to the surface. She stared down at her hands, tracing imaginary patterns in the wrinkles of her jeans. "No."

Dr. Hawkins studied her for a moment, analyzing her expression carefully, like he had done countless times before. "Your dad was there, wasn't he?"

Priscilla didn't answer immediately. She didn't need to.

"He was," she finally admitted, but the word came out hollow, stripped of all emotion.

"And how did that feel for you? Seeing him there, seeing how proud he was, did it make you think about how she may have been just as proud, if not more?"

Priscilla's jaw tightened even further. She didn't want to answer. "No."

"Not even a little?" Dr. Hawkins pressed gently.

"Not really."

The silence stretched again. Priscilla felt her chest tighten as Dr. Hawkins leaned back, his gaze unwavering. She could feel him analyzing every breath she took, every shift in her body.

Dr. Hawkins didn't flinch. "Priscilla, I want to acknowledge something. It's okay to feel things—"

"Good thing I didn't fucking feel anything," Priscilla cut him off, her voice sharp, biting. She couldn't stop herself. "Why do you keep asking these questions? Everyone acts like I'm supposed to have some huge reaction to everything, but I don't. I'm fine."

Dr. Hawkins didn't react to her outburst. His tone remained calm and steady. "You're convinced you're fine, but maybe it's not so simple."

Priscilla shot up from her chair, knocking it backward with a clatter. Her fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles white. "I said I'm fine!" Her voice cracked, rising with frustration. "I'm done!" Without waiting for his response, she stormed toward the door, grabbing the handle and slamming it behind her.

Dr. Hawkins' voice followed her, calm and measured as ever. "Priscilla, wait. Running away won't help you heal."

She didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every step she took felt heavier, as if the weight of her emotions was finally catching up with her. By the time she reached the parking lot, her breaths came short and uneven, her chest heaving with the effort to hold everything in.

Her dad was waiting by his car, watching as she approached. But Priscilla couldn't look at him. Couldn't face the quiet disappointment she knew was there.

She got into the car, slamming the door shut. Refusing to look his way, she stared out the window instead, the tension between them thick and unspoken.

Her dad didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The silence screamed louder than anything else. Priscilla sank deeper into the seat, feeling the weight of everything she hadn't said.

"I'm fine," she muttered under her breath, but even she didn't believe it. Not really.

The cold air from the car's vents seemed to seep through the seams of Priscilla's skin, sending a shiver through her. She stared out the window, refusing to meet her dad's eyes as the silence stretched between them. The tension in the car felt suffocating, heavy with unspoken words.

After a long pause, her voice broke the silence, soft but weighted. "It's not fair," she said, almost to herself. "Why do I have to sit with someone once a week, someone who thinks there's something broken inside me, when James doesn't? We went through the same thing. The same exact thing, and he doesn't have to do any of this."

Her father exhaled, slow and steady. "James always was more open than you, Priscilla," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "He always found it easier to talk about things."

Priscilla felt a pang of pain, sharp and biting, as his words hit her like a knife. She hated how true they were. "So that means I'm difficult then, doesn't it?" Her voice trembled, and the anger in her was sharp, even though she didn't want it to be.

Her father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's not what I meant. I just meant—"

But Priscilla didn't let him finish. "You didn't mean to make me feel like I'm hard to deal with, but that's how it feels. Like I'm some kind of project that needs fixing."

Her dad opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off again. "You think if I were more like James, maybe I'd be better? Maybe I'd be the one who doesn't need to sit in that stupid office, answering stupid questions about feelings I don't even know how to have."

"I don't think that," her dad said, his voice softer, but Priscilla could feel his unease. "I just want you to feel—"

"Feel what?" she snapped. "Feel fine? Because that's all I ever hear from everyone. How fine I need to be, how fine they want me to be."

Her dad's hand rested on the steering wheel, his knuckles white from gripping it too hard. "Priscilla, I know this isn't easy for you. None of it is. But James... he's different from you. And that's not a bad thing."

Priscilla didn't respond. She just stared at her lap, her anger and bitterness swelling inside her. It wasn't about how different James was. It wasn't even about what Dr. Hawkins had said earlier. It was something else. Something more.

Her mother.

"She didn't have to sit in a therapist's office once a week," Priscilla whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "She never had to. And now, I'm the one left here, dealing with all of this. With him."

Her dad shifted uncomfortably. "Priscilla..."

"No, it's not fair," she said, her voice rising again. "Why does she get to be gone, and James gets to be fine? But I have to sit here, being told I'm broken, like there's something wrong with me that needs fixing. Like I'm different, difficult, whatever you want to call it."

Her father sighed, his tone softening. "It's not about being difficult, Priscilla. You're not broken. You never have been."

But Priscilla didn't want to hear it anymore. She didn't want to speak, didn't want to listen. She couldn't stand the weight of his words, the weight of everything.

"I'm not talking about this," she said, her voice quiet now, but still firm. "I'm fine."

Her dad glanced over, but she refused to meet his gaze. The car filled with silence again, heavier than before. Neither of them spoke.

Priscilla leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She wasn't fine, and she knew it. But saying it aloud was just too much. The walls of the car seemed to close in on her, trapping her inside her own head, her own emotions. There was no escape from this. Not yet.