Thalia's POV
I spend all of Wednesday preparing myself for the worst.
The scandal from the coffee shop photos has died down slightly, but I still feel exposed. Raw. Like everyone is watching me, judging my choices.
When I arrive at Dr. Morrison's office at 5:55, Damian is already there setting up chairs.
He looks up when I enter, and I see the same exhaustion in his eyes that I feel in my bones.
Hey, he says quietly.
Hey.
We've texted exactly three times since the photo incident—all professional, all brief. But standing in the same room feels different. Heavier.
I printed copies of grounding techniques for everyone, he says, gesturing to papers on the side table. Thought it might be helpful after last session.
Good idea.
Awkward silence.
Thalia, about the photos
We're not doing this here, I cut him off. The group will be here any minute, and we agreed to be professional.
Right. Professional. He nods, but I see hurt flash across his face.
I ignore it and focus on arranging my notes.
The group members arrive one by one. I watch their faces carefully, wondering if they saw the photos online. If they're judging me.
But Maria just gives me a warm hug. Devon offers me coffee he brought from downstairs. Claire asks if I'm okay in a way that suggests she knows something happened but won't pry.
These people are kinder than I deserve.
Dr. Morrison observes from the corner again, her notebook open but her attention sharp.
Let's start with check-ins, Damian begins once everyone is seated. How is everyone doing this week?
The rhythm we found during coffee carries into the session. He asks clinical questions; I share personal insights. He provides framework; I bring empathy.
It's not perfect, but it's better.
Devon talks about a panic attack he had at work when his boss asked about budget discrepancies. Completely innocent questions, but his trauma from being defrauded made him spiral.
The logical part of my brain knew I hadn't done anything wrong, Devon says. But my body went into full panic mode anyway. Like I was back in that interrogation room being accused.
Trauma lives in the body, I say quietly. Even when your brain knows you're safe, your nervous system remembers the danger.
Devon looks at me with understanding. Exactly. It's like my body doesn't trust that I'm okay.
That's normal, Damian adds. Trauma rewires how we process threat. Rebuilding that trust—with yourself and others—takes time.
The session flows better than Monday's disaster. People are opening up, sharing deeper. The tension between Damian and me is still there, but it's not suffocating the space.
Then we get to the trust exercise.
I want to try something, Damian says. A grounding exercise in pairs. One person closes their eyes while the other guides them through the room using only verbal directions. It builds trust in letting someone else lead while you're vulnerable.
My stomach clenches.
We'll demonstrate first, he continues. Thalia, would you
Actually, maybe one of the group members should demonstrate, I interrupt quickly.
Damian's eyes meet mine, and I see him calculating. Understanding.
Good idea. Maria, would you and Devon volunteer?
They stand, and Devon closes his eyes while Maria guides him around chairs with gentle instructions. Three steps forward. Now turn left. One more step.
It's sweet. Simple. Safe.
The group pairs off—Claire with James, Aisha with Marcus.
I'm left standing with Damian.
I can sit this one out, I say immediately.
Or I can close my eyes and you can guide me, he offers. That way you're in control.
The suggestion surprises me. He's giving me the power position.
Okay, I agree reluctantly.
Damian closes his eyes, and I suddenly realize how vulnerable this makes him. He's completely trusting me not to hurt him.
Two steps forward, I say, my voice shaking slightly.
He moves carefully, his hands slightly raised for balance.
Turn right. Three more steps.
He follows my directions perfectly, never hesitating. Never questioning.
The trust is almost painful to watch.
After a few minutes, Damian calls time and asks everyone to switch roles.
My heart pounds. I don't think—
You don't have to, he says quietly, just for me. We can sit down.
But Maria is watching. So is Dr. Morrison. And I can't keep being the weak one who can't handle a simple exercise.
I'll do it, I say, more to prove something to myself than anything.
I close my eyes.
Darkness surrounds me immediately. My breathing quickens.
You're okay, Damian's voice comes from somewhere in front of me. I'm going to guide you. Just listen to my voice.
Okay. My word comes out barely a whisper.
Two steps forward.
I take them, my hands reaching out instinctively for something to grab.
You're doing great. Now turn slightly left.
I turn, disoriented without my vision.
One more step forward. There's a chair on your right—you're going to move past it.
I take the step, my heart racing.
Then I hear footsteps behind me.
Every nerve in my body screams danger.
My eyes fly open and I spin around so fast I nearly fall.
Damian is standing behind me—not close, maybe three feet away, but behind me where I can't see him.
The room tilts. My vision tunnels. My chest tightens like someone is squeezing my lungs.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't
Thalia. Damian's voice cuts through the panic, but he doesn't move closer. Look at me. You're safe. I'm moving away now.
He steps back, giving me space, his hands raised where I can see them.
But it's too late. The panic attack is already crashing over me.
I stumble backward into a chair. My hands shake violently. Black spots dance across my vision.
The courtroom floods back—Marcus and his legal team sitting behind me during cross-examination. Damian's voice coming from the front while they whispered behind me. The feeling of being surrounded. Trapped.
Five things you can see, Damian says from across the room. His voice is gentle but firm. Not moving closer. Giving me space.
I can't
Yes, you can. Five things. Start with something easy.
Maria appears at my side, kneeling down but not touching. The window, she says softly. That's one.
The, the chair, I gasp.
Good. Keep going, Damian encourages.
Your—your notebook. I focus on Dr. Morrison's leather journal in the corner.
Two more, Maria says.
The—the clock. And the— My breathing starts to slow slightly. The plant by the door.
Perfect. Now four things you can touch.
I reach out and grab the chair arm. This.
Maria extends her hand. Me. If you want.
I take her hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
Good. Two more, Damian says. Still across the room. Still giving me space.
My—my jeans. And my, my phone in my pocket.
You're doing amazing. Three things you can hear.
I focus, my heartbeat slowing from its frantic pace.
Your voice. The air conditioning. Someone walking in the hallway outside.
Two things you can smell.
Coffee. And—and Maria's perfume.
One thing you can taste.
The—the mint I had before coming here.
My breathing is almost normal now. The panic receding like a wave pulling back from shore.
I look up and find the entire group watching me with concern. Not judgment. Not pity. Just genuine care.
I'm sorry, I whisper.
Don't apologize, Claire says immediately. We've all been there.
Not all of us break down during a trust exercise, I say, trying to laugh but it comes out shaky.
I had a panic attack in a grocery store last month because someone yelled at their kid, James offers. Trauma doesn't care about timing.
Aisha nods. I had one at the DMV. Very glamorous.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Damian is still across the room, his face pale. Thalia, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking about spatial awareness. I should have
You were doing the exercise, I interrupt. You didn't do anything wrong.
I stood behind you. That's on the list of things not to do.
The fact that he remembers, that he's genuinely horrified at his mistake, makes something in my chest ease slightly.
Dr. Morrison speaks for the first time. This is actually a valuable teaching moment. Triggers can appear in unexpected situations. What matters is how we respond when they happen.
How do we prevent it next time? Maria asks, looking between Damian and me.
I take a shaky breath. We need signals. Ways to communicate when I'm getting overwhelmed without having to explain in front of everyone.
What kind of signals? Devon asks.
Damian pulls out his phone. Let me take notes.
We spend the next twenty minutes developing a system:
If I touch my collarbone, I need space immediatelyIf I say I need a minute, everyone gives me time without questionsIf Damian needs to move around the room during sessions, he announces it first so I can track where he isIf my breathing changes, Maria (who sits next to me) can quietly check if I'm okay
This is good for all of us, Claire points out. We all have triggers. Having a system helps everyone feel safer.
By the time the session ends, I'm exhausted but oddly calm.
The group files out slowly, each person offering quiet support.
When it's just me and Damian, he approaches carefully.
I'm really sorry about what happened, he says.
You apologized three times already.
I'll probably apologize three more. I triggered your panic attack. That's—
A mistake, I finish. You made a mistake. You didn't do it on purpose.
He looks surprised. You're being very understanding about this.
Maybe I'm learning that not every trigger is an attack. I grab my bag. The signals will help. For next time.
There'll be a next time?
Wednesday sessions, right? Unless you're trying to get rid of me.
Something like relief floods his face. Never.
We walk toward the door together, maintaining careful distance.
Thalia. He stops me. What you said in there—about trauma living in the body even when your brain knows you're safe. That was brilliant. You helped Devon understand his experience in a way I couldn't.
I lived it. That makes it easier to explain.
It makes you an incredible facilitator. His expression is earnest. These people are lucky to have you.
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod and leave.
Outside, my phone buzzes.
A message from the group chat.
Maria: Proud of you for pushing through tonight. You're braver than you think.
Devon: The signals idea was genius. Game changer for all of us.
Claire: Same time next week. We've got this.
I smile at my phone, genuine warmth spreading through my chest.
Then another message appears.
Unknown number: Interesting session tonight. Panic attacks during trust exercises? Seems like you and Morrison have deeper issues than professional collaboration. Still want to talk about what I know? Offer stands. - M
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus was watching somehow.
He knows what happened in that private therapy session.
Which means either someone in the group is feeding him information...
Or he's found another way to spy on me.