Archive of Our Own

Despite everything that has happened with Fatin recently, Rana Jadmani still believes that she knows her daughter, her eldest and first born, pretty well. Maybe that’s why she always pushes so hard. One couldn’t tell from the terse relationship between them now, but there had once been a time where Fatin had grinned sunnily every time she saw Rana, had reached for her mother with chubby fists, had only quietened and calmed when her little sausage fingers had curled around one of Rana’s own.

There had been a time when Fatin had looked at her mother and seen the sun and Rana had looked at her daughter and seen the same.

After the island, Fatin doesn’t speak to either of her parents for two weeks. She knows they had a hand in her experience and she can’t forgive them for it. Thinking of the difference between her sunny little girl and the teenager before her, Rana isn’t sure if she blames her. It is fourteen days, after all those weeks and months of Fatin being stranded, of stress and yelling and pleading, her daughter stony faced and immovable throughout it all. Finally, she breaks when her brothers force her hand.

‘Fatin,’ Ahmed whispers, as though their parents won’t hear from the kitchen. At her seat at the dinner table, her daughter stiffens, trying not to flinch at the shock of his voice near her elbow, and Rana has to swallow hard to choke down the bitterness of her regret. “Mama cries at night for you. Since you left.” His voice is soft but matter of fact, like he knows Fatin will see everything differently when she understands. Rana’s hands freeze in the sink.

She hadn’t thought the boys had heard.

Next to her, Samad sighs, wringing his hands in the tea towel he had been using to dry dishes. Rana casts a sidelong glance at her husband and contemplates pulling the towel tight around his neck and strangling him with it. At the table, Fatin has gone completely stiff, a wild and panicked look in her eyes. In her chest, Rana’s heart shatters as Fatin involuntarily releases a strangled cry. Samad moves to rush to his daughter’s side, but Rana holds his wrist in an iron-clad grip, shaking her head as their boys wrap their older sister in an embrace. Fatin’s hands tremble as they wrap around her brothers and her eyes are clenched closed to stop the tears from falling.

“She has to come to us, Samad,” Rana whispers, barely even stung by the scornful look her husband gives her. “We tried a strong hand. We nearly killed her. She has to forgive us.”

“We didn’t know.”

Rana fixes him with a steely look. She has been strong all of her life — never the type of woman to yield easily even to her husband — but she has never stood as firm as this. She shouldn’t have had to. “I saw how much of my money you paid to send her away. You knew something.” The words are firm and final and still shaky because Rana cannot believe it has come to this. To Samad backing away from her, shaking his head in disbelief, brow taut with anger as he tries to dodge her accusation, the truth resounding in both of their bones.

“Rana-”

She silences him with a flick of her hand. Samad has gone pale before her, but that does not dissuade her. “You will be out by the morning.” She turns away before he can try to protest, to weasel his way back into the family he betrayed so many times. Fatin and her brothers have gone, their moment of vulnerability over, and she knows that her daughter is barricaded in her room. The Fatin of before breezed in and out of the house on her own terms and times. The Fatin of now only leaves for Leah Rilke.

Things may be tense in the Jadmani household, but Rana isn’t stupid. She hears Leah sneaking in practically every night that Fatin doesn’t sneak out herself, but simply couldn’t find it in herself to press the issue. She just let it be and left quietly every time that she walked in on the two of them in the mornings, their legs and hands tangled around each other in a mess of limbs that made it hard to see where each girl ended and the other began. Rana tries not to think about how that sentiment and pattern maybe goes a little deeper than anyone but Leah and Fatin will ever realise. Still, she noticed the way that Fatin was constantly texting or calling Leah if they weren’t together, and that her daughter’s voice took on a soft quality that she had never heard it do with anybody else before, and the way that a simple smile from the taller girl could make Fatin ease and relax when she was tense and wound up.

Rana notices a lot, but supposes that it is a small kindness to a daughter she has wronged to keep these details to herself.

Now, she knocks on Fatin’s door, waiting where previously she would have barged in, staying silent when before she would have commented on the fact that Fatin was lying on her bed instead of working or practising, ignoring the state of her room where, long ago, she might have scoffed or raised an eyebrow. A lot has changed and Rana thinks maybe she should do too if she wants to deserve her daughter's forgiveness. Leah is already perched on the bed with Fatin, their legs intertwined as a laptop perches on their laps, and whilst Fatin just raises an eyebrow in question, Leah flushes under the knowing stare of Rana.

“Fatin, I have to tell you something, and it's up to you if Leah stays,” she starts, trying hard to keep her voice from trembling. She is a strong woman, and she only wishes she was as strong as her daughter. She only wishes she never made the mistake of listening to Samad. Fatin looks shaken, but just nods at her mother, fingers locking with Leah’s, and Rana takes a deep breath. “Your father and I are finished. We have not sorted out the details, but you deserve to know that I am finished with listening to him. You are my daughter and I never should have even threatened to send you away, let alone done so.”

Fatin’s jaw drops numbly, her eyes shining with a mix of emotions that Rana herself can’t even begin to parse. Leah keeps her surprise under wraps, but she can still see the gleam of interest in her eyes, and Rana promises to stop doubting the need to integrate Leah Rilke into every facet of their lives. “Mom-” Fatin’s voice cracks, and she turns away, refusing to let either of the other people in the room see her vulnerability. Rana just nods, and turns away, making to leave Fatin to her processing, but she stops for just a second in the doorway.

“Whatever happens, I am on your side. Whatever you want from this, you will get. If you want to never see him again, I can make that happen. If you want shared custody, I can make that happen. If you want to go with him, I will understand. But I will never ever abandon you again.” She promises, forcing herself to meet Fatin’s as her own voice shakes. She and her daughter share their distaste for exposing their vulnerabilities, but now is not the time for minced words or vague intentions. She will not fail her daughter again.

Still, even with the serious nature of the conversation, the girls staring at her wide-eyed and rapt, Rana cannot help but seize the opportunity. “And Fatin?’

“Yeah?” Her voice cracks, but no-one mentions it. The smallest kindest they can muster.

Rana smiles, fighting to keep the amusement out of her voice. “Leah is welcome at any time. If she uses the door. I don’t care if it’s at three in the morning. No more windows.”

Leah flushes, a small squeak of affirmation escaping as she averts her eyes, but Fatin was never one to be shy, and Rana smiles as her daughter simply laughs and nods. “I was surprised we got away with it for so long, to be honest,” she admits, shrugging. Leah smacks her gently on the shoulder, grinning as Fatin playfully winces. Rana watches carefully as Fatin’s eyes lock with Leah’s, and thinks to herself that it looks a little like how it used to when Samad would take photos of Fatin staring up at Rana as a baby. The look in her eye is a little different but that gleam of awe and wonder and astonishment still shines. Fatin stares at Leah as if she was the sun and Leah stares right back, a blush dusted over her cheeks.

Leah clears her throat, fixing Rana with a serious look despite her blush. “Got it. Sorry Mrs Jadmani.”

“Call me Rana.” she acquiesces, sending Leah a small smile. The girl nods again, but Rana is just watching the grin spreading across Fatin’s face as she watches the interaction. She had never allowed any of Fatin’s friends or more-than-friends to call her by her first name. This is the most explicit kind of approval she can manage to express, and she is thankful that Fatin hasn’t missed that fact.

“Sorry, Rana,” she amends, biting her lip. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t have to clarify what she is thanking her for. Rana nods and turns away, shutting the door softly behind her. They all live in the wake of their choices, but Rana will never stop regretting hers. Still, she smiles as she heads for the stairs, satisfied in the knowledge that she is beginning to make the steps necessary to repair what she had allowed to be broken.

Leah had come out to her parents when she was barely a teenager, and as far as they were concerned, that was that. They didn’t pry or push or expect more from her than she wanted to give. They let Leah come to them in her own time and, before, that had been enough for her to do so when she had to. Now, Kurt thinks as he quietly sips his coffee, watching Leah carefully, the bridge between them has collapsed and a gaping chasm remains, it’s vast maw something impossible to cross. He watches his only daughter as, jaw stiff, she traces careful and precise circles in the spilled coffee on the counter, cereal abandoned before her. On anyone else, the movement might seem careless or thoughtless, but Leah’s gaze is too sharp and focused on the trails of brown for it to be dismissed so readily. She doesn’t eat breakfast anymore — just drinks coffee. Her appetite is so much smaller since the island that Maryann is worried about something like an eating disorder. Kurt is a little more wary to label it as such, but that might just be because he’s seen the way that she catalogues the contents of the fridge and cupboards almost obsessively, counting and portioning and dividing the food until she is satisfied. Leah can’t seem to eat anymore without making sure that her parents have finished eating first, and then she leaves half of her meal behind and stores it away carefully. She doesn’t explain it, maybe doesn’t even realise that she’s doing it, and Kurt wishes that he could come up with any answer other than it being a hold over of her trying not to starve to death, because any other answer would be better than that. Any other answer would be less of a blow to the gut as he looks at the pieces of his little girl.

“You weren’t in your bed this morning.” He tries to be gentle with his words, but judging from the tense line of Leah’s shoulders, he failed to keep the worry and concern out of his voice.

“Sun was up.” She shrugs, as though the answer to his unspoken question is clear and precise in her own statement, and Kurt doesn’t know how to proceed except to push harder.

“Are you okay?”

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Leah’s head snaps up and her glare bores into him. “I’m fucking fine, Dad. Just fuck off.” Before the island, Kurt would never have let his daughter speak to him like that, not without forcing a long conversation to see why she was acting out so viciously. Now, in the wake of all his mistakes and missteps, Kurt just sighs, and drains his coffee mug as Leah stalks away, eyes burning and frown taut across her features. The front door slams closed before he realises that she is heading outside, and he just sighs again as it echoes around him. It is as if he is surrounded by the rubble and ruin of what his family has become, and is completely ill equipped to try and rebuild something so delicate and perfect, something that he had never really understood how he achieved in the first place.

He doesn’t hear Leah’s car pull away, so he knows that she has walked around to the back garden, her shadow splayed across the open kitchen windows as she leans against the garden wall, appearing to steel herself. Kurt watches as she settles heavily on the garden furniture, the weak autumn sunlight dappling across her features. She does that a lot now — sitting outside. It used to be that they could barely get Leah out of her room, but now she hates the dark and the enclosed walls just a little less than she seems to hate the open and the green. Kurt knows that he shouldn’t compare Leah so much to the girl that she used to be before, but he doesn’t know how to understand anything without the contrast, without learning the differences between what he would have done before and what he should do now through the changes in Leah herself. Maryann once tried to ask why, on the mornings that they did find her still at home, she had spent the night sleeping outside. Leah had just looked at them, a scarily blank expression overtaking her face as she shrugs nonchalantly and explains that nothing feels right without the sounds of birds and the feel of dirt on her skin.

“Hey.” Leah’s voice is soft and quiet and not meant for her father. A quick glance shows that she has her phone cradled to her ear, and Kurt doesn’t have to strain to know who is on the other end of the line. The clouds over Leah’s expression clear slightly as she presses her phone closer to her ear, the line of her shoulders easing as she leans back. Kurt knows he should turn away, but blames his curiosity on a vague fatherly instinct, rather than an aching need to understand the myriad of ways who the girl in the place of his daughter now is.

“Not really,” Leah sighs heavily in response to some unheard question, “but you don’t have to if you can’t or if you’re busy.”

Kurt catches the crackle of a laugh and a garbled reassurance, a grin pulling at his daughter’s lips and he isn’t surprised when, ten minutes later, Fatin Jadmani pulls up in his driveway. The girl doesn’t go through the house, rounding instead through the gate Leah must have opened to the backyard. Normally, her dismissal of proper manners would irk Kurt a little, but he just grips the countertop harder as he watches Fatin slot herself into Leah’s side, fitting as easily as puzzle pieces. Leah immediately leans into the other girl, and Kurt feels a strange ache flood his chest. Looking at the way that Fatin’s thumb trails across Leah’s cheek and jawline, her eyes fluttering soft as she heaves a sigh, Kurt maybe thinks that this strange connection between the two of them is a little easier to understand than before.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here.” Fatin’s voice drifts through the kitchen windows, and there is so much adoration and devotion in her soft tone that Kurt feels a spike of guilt for his role as voyeur, forcing him to turn away. Later, when the girls finally venture in from the backyard, Kurt simply nods at the two of them, sendings as much of an apologetic look towards Leah as he could. Fatin just smiles in return, arm still wrapped around Leah’s waist. Kurt watches as the two of them climb the stairs, conversing in soft voices, Leah finally cracking a genuine smile, and he doesn’t realise his hands are shaking till he almost drops his coffee mug. He wishes that he could find the words to express the strange mix of grief and relief churning in his gut: simultaneously mourning the version of his daughter that wasn’t so burdened by experiences she never should have had and filled with gratitude that she has someone by her side able to pick up the pieces where he cannot.

Helene Morin had taught both Leah Rilke and Fatin Jadmani in the past, the former a better and more attentive student than the first, but neither showing much enthusiasm for her subject of French. Honestly, she is kind of surprised that Fatin even passes the class most of the time, but the girl usually had a knack for pulling it out of the bag when she had to. She supposes that it’s natural for kids with such intense interest in the subjects that got them into the Academy, but it doesn’t stop her from becoming slightly disheartened now and again. Kids giving half effort and not paying attention any more than they had to is not exactly why she got into teaching.

So, it isn’t that Leah and Fatin’s level of interest has changed this year. More that they have.

Of course, Helene had noticed their absences from school, as had everybody else. She may be a teacher, but she isn’t immune to the lure of the gossip mill, so she may have taken note of the chattering and rumours amongst the students, the tight lipped and disapproving frown etched into the principal's ageing features. Upon their return, the rumours seems now to only have increased, with the new closeness between the two girls betraying the fact that, whatever had happened, they had been together, shining doubt on the excuses given by parents that they had been away staying with family. Before, she hadn’t even been sure the two girls knew each other. They certainly hadn’t been friendly. Now, she is yet to see them apart.

Originally, Fatin had been scheduled for a different class. Enough kids take French for there to be two different timetable slots for them but not a seperate teacher, so it didn’t make much difference to Helene and she simply constructed her timetables to fit the demands of the larger and more needy departments. Two weeks before the start of semester, three and a half months after the initial disappearance of the girls, the principals asked her to put Leah and Fatin in the same class and not ask any questions. His expression was weary enough that Helene was pretty sure that, if she had pushed the subject, he might have just cried. So, Helene had obliged if only out of curiosity, a sense which is certainly being fuelled now.

Before, Fatin had been something of a class clown when the mood took her whilst Leah had barely spoken to most of the other kids unless forced. Fatin had done enough work to get by whilst Leah had simply tried her best, but never seemed that bothered about falling a little short now and then. Now, neither of them looks to anyone else except each other and, occasionally throughout the period, Helene herself. She usually tries not to take too much notice of the affairs of students, thinking it better to let them come to her if they need anything in particular, but Leah and Fatin are a different case and one that is incredibly hard to ignore. Neither of them had properly dated around at the school, if the rumour mill about Fatin having a habit of sleeping with college boys and Leah being too much of a book worm to date is to be believed. Watching the two of them now, Helene wonders if this mould may have been broken, or even shattered completely. Faitin ignores the boys that Helene had previously been unable to prevent her from flirting with, favouring instead to lean over to sneak a glance at Leah’s paper, the other girl angling it so she could get a better view in a move she had never seen from studious and straight laced Leah Rilke. The two spend the whole lesson conversing softly, too quietly to disturb anyone so Helene lets them be, still noting the subtle entwining of their fingers when they aren’t writing, the way Fatin leans across every so often to scribble notes on Leah’s paper that make the other girl flush, the small braided bracelet on Fatin’s elegant wrist that was at odds with the rest of her flashy jewellery.

The work that they turn in is half-completed and almost identical, with little notes scribbled over or erased, and Helene has to hold back a smile when she watches their hands gravitate together as they walk out of the classroom. No one really knows what happened to them in the time that they were away, but Helene can’t help but root for them in the wake of this. According to staff room gossip, the two of them have been paired together in every possible class, and Fatin ‘s mother had threatened to sue if the school got in the way of either girls’ needs in the aftermath of whatever they had experienced. Helene privately believes that they only really seem to want each other. So, she notices a lot, but keeps it to herself with a quiet smile and a chuckle. She can’t help but think of the rumours and conclude that they deserve their hard won peace.

Kyle Folker isn’t homecoming king material, but he doesn’t really care about that when he knows he’s rich-heartbreaker-asshole material. Playing nice and winning popularity crowns is for suckers. At least, that’s the kind of attitude he tries to give off; most days he tries not to let himself think too deeply about whether or not this is an easy way out. Whether or not defaulting to smart comments and slacking off and acting like an ass is just an easier way to get through the days rather than actually trying to be himself.

This is all to say that Kyle Folker is not the kind of guy who admits that he’s wrong very often, or to make an effort to be on anyone else’s side but his own. He’s okay enough with that being the way things go, but that might need some revising.

“So, Fatin,” he sidles up to the girl in question whilst she’s stood at her locker, gathering her things ready to go home. She doesn’t even spare him a glance, simply making a noise of acknowledgement in the back of her throat. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out this weekend.” He doesn’t say it as a question, more a statement with expected acceptance. He definitely didn’t see her glare coming. That doesn’t stop her from fixing him with the most ice cold stature he’s ever experienced. She doesn’t even use words to reject him, simply snorting disbelievingly, before swinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder and turning on her heel, setting off down the hall towards the parking lot.

Kyle stands dumbfounded at her locker for a couple of seconds, before frowning and chasing after her. “Come on, Fatin, you know I’ll show you a good time,” he whines, sending her his most charming smile and a wink for good measure. He assumed that Fatin Jadmani would be an easy enough lay, but she is definitely proving him wrong now.

“And you know I don’t fuck with high school boys,” Fatin quips back, rolling her eyes as he jogs next to her, though she actively recoils when he grabs at her arm. Still, Kyle isn’t one to give up easily and he isn’t going to start now.

“Shit, don’t make me go through all the hoops, babe,” he grins, rubbing his thumb into the skin of her wrist.

She frowns at him, whipping her arm back and out of his grip viciously. “I’m not your fucking babe, Kyle. And don’t fucking touch me ever again, unless you want to lose a hand.”

Kyle scoffs, sending her a cocky smile. “I could make you my babe, Fatin. Come on, just give me a chance.”

“She said no, dickwad.” Leah Rilke’s voice butts into the coversation, the girl materialising at Fatin’s side like she’s made of fucking shadow, the way that she keeps seem to do these days. She sends him a furious glare, arm wrapped possessively around Fatin’s shoulders as the other girl grins up at her, happily tucking into her side. Her appearance takes him aback for a couple of seconds, but it doesn’t take long for him to come to his senses and scoff disbelievingly.

“Fuck off, Rilke, what are you, Fatin’s guard dog?”

Finally, Fatin’s expression shutters into something cold and hard, her words icy and low. “Call her that again and see what happens, motherfucker.” Her eyes burn with something Kyle can’t even name, and he takes an involuntary step back, holding up his hands in surrender. Leah smirks at him, triumphant as she pulls Fatin a little closer to her side.

Anger surges through him suddenly, fury and indignance at being rejected. He pushes Fatin back a little, smirking when she stumbles away from Leah slightly, and moves to turn away, but not before muttering not-so-subtly, ‘guess you really are a dyke now.’ Even half-turned, he can see the shadow pass over Leah’s face, expression twisting into a rage-filled snarl, and he feels a brief swell of satisfaction in his chest, but it doesn’t last long. Kurt misses the flurry of movement from Leah, but he realises that she must have pulled her fist back when he feels his face explode with pain, his nose cracking and breaking under the force of her knuckles.

He stumbles backwards, clutching at his face as he spits with anger. Blindly, he pushes her backwards, elbow flying up to catch her in the mouth, lip splitting. “What the fuck!”

“Call her that again and I’ll do worse, asshole,” Leah snaps, smiling through the blood staining her teeth. Something gleams in her eyes that makes him hesitate from pushing forward, something that makes her look almost unhinged. Behind her, Fatin pulls at her arm, a plea for her to step back and out of the situation. Kyle grimaces as Leah steps forward threatenly again, ignoring Fatin’s grip on her arm. “I swear to God, Kyle, even try messing with her again and I’ll make you regret it.”

Finally, Fatin manages to pull Leah’s attention away from him, her eyes darting back to look at the shorter girl behind her. Despite the pain in his face distracting him, Kyle doesn’t miss the way that Leah’s expression instantly clears and a smile pulls at the corner of her lips. He watches as Fatin’s touch glides over the other girl’s skin, gentle and reverent, and, despite him not being the brightest, something clicks even in Kyle’s brain as he watches the interaction. "Are you okay, Lee?" Fatin's voice is low and urgent, panic spiking as her hands roam, checking Leah for any further injuries. It's excessive and out of place and unnecessary, because, honestly, Kyle is the one who took the brunt of that fight, but Leah is smiling softly and reassuring Fatin under the breath, promising that she was okay and that she wasn't leaving her, wasn't going anywhere. Fatin's grip is white kunckled on Leah's wrists, other hand stroking her cheek softly, and the relief that floods through the shorter girl's body almost makes her sag to the floor.

Before anything else can happen, Miss Morin comes storming down the corridor, gesturing for all of them to head to the nurse’s office and then the principal's as soon as they are finished. Kyle watches the way that Miss Morin’s stern mast falters a little as she looks at Leah, who is baring her teeth through her bloody lip, grinning a little viciously. Fatin rolls her eyes, pulling at Leah’s collar to drag her down the hall as she stares at him, glaring holes into his head. Kyle traipses after them reluctantly, wishing he had just kept his mouth shut and out of Fatin’s business. No bitch was worth this shit.

He glowers at Leah and Fatin from his position on the chair next to theirs, hand still cupped over his nose as he tries to breathe past the blood. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, Rilke?” Fatin says, her voice low and soft, and Kyle tries not to show that he is listening in to their conversation, but the notes of care and exasperation still lingering from earlier are a little foreign to hear in Fatin’s voice, considering the fact that she’s a notorious bitch. Still, maybe there was something to the claims that she was completely different now after her impromptu disappearance, best demonstrated by the fact that she is apparently joined at the hip with Leah Rilke of all people.

Leah chuckles quietly, leaning her head back as she grins sheepishly. “You’ve known this for a while, Fatin,” she mutters, sending her a mocking wink. Faith just laughs a little, grabbing Leah’s hand and intertwining their fingers. Kyle averts his eyes, suddenly a little uncomfortable. “You think that our parents are actually going to do anything this time?”

Fatin hums, considering the question. “Maybe my mom, but definitely not yours. Shelby and Martha will be real disappointed though.”

“Why is that actually worse?” Leah asks, screwing her nose up in confusion, but her expression loosens when Fatin laughs, and Kyle suddenly feels like he’s intruding. He hadn’t paid much attention to the rumours going around that Fatin was shaking up with Leah, but apparently they rode into school together basically every day, and judging by the way that Fatin is stroking circles into the pale soft skin of Leah’s hand, maybe there was something to them. He had hoped not, because Fatin Jadmani was way too hot to be a lesbian, but he’s also necer seen the stone cold bitch look so soft for someone.

“If it helps, Toni would definitely be proud.” Fatin says drily, grinning when Leah groans and remarks that it makes it worse. Whatever the fuck happened to these two in the months they were gone is way deeper than just staying with family or going away for some time — they kept mentioning people that Kyle knew definitely didn’t go to their school. Besides, nothing causal resulted in someone like Fatin Jadmani or Leah Rilke changing like this, or bonding this tight apparently.

And, yeah, Kyle’s a dickhead, but as he looks at Leah resting her head gently on Fatin’s shoulder, wiping her blood off from her lip, and the way that Fatin grins down at her, eyes softer than he had ever seen them before, he thinks that maybe it would be worse than being a dickhead to say shit about this. So, despite the ingrained instinct to make some asshole comment about them gaying up the place or anything like that, Kyle just looks and pinches at his nose a little harder, wincing at the pain. Some self important part of him wishes that one of the two would look at him and realise that he knows what’s going on between the two of them, that they aren’t subtle and he is going to keep their business out of his mouth, but when he casts his eyes back over to them, they still don’t have eyes for anyone but each other, Fatin stroking Leah’s hair gently as they conversed in low voices, and Kyle swallows back the urge to scoff. Maybe Fatin doesn’t care about her rep anymore. Maybe when someone sees him well enough to look at him like that, Kyle won’t either. For now, he’ll spend tomorrow boasting about kicking Leah Rilke’s ass, calling her some crazed bitch, but he won’t say shit about this, and maybe that will be enough.

Jenny Lewis has been a therapist for a good while now, and isn’t often surprised by the stories she gets from patients or the things that they experience and feel. Sure, different trauma from people like soldiers always results in shocking and gory stories, but all her patients’ issues usually stem back to the same issues of survivor’s guilt or blaming oneself or being unable to move past guilt and anger. Being a therapist who specialises in cases of PTSD means she has to be pretty hardy and able to see past the details that her clients fixate on to the root of the issue. This is all to say that Leah Rilke is a special and unusual case, even though it mainly fits into all of the regular checkboxes.

For one, she is younger than basically all of her other patients. PTSD and trauma isn’t something that exclusively happens to adults, but most send kids to a child therapist who specialises in dealing with kids instead of simply incredibly traumatic events. Jenny is pretty okay with that — she’s never been good at dealing with children, or teenagers for that matter. Still, Leah Rilke is different in that way, too. Despite the moments of immaturity or youth that she might display, most of the time, she seems pushed down by a weight beyond her years, even by Jenny’s standards. She wasn’t told much about the case before she took it — a court case seems to be incoming and not many details could be shared about the specifics until Jenny had committed to seeing Leah regularly. That absence of knowledge didn’t change for a while either: Leah is a pretty closed book when she wants to be, spending most of her sessions glaring at Jenny or watching the notes that she writes intently.

Clinically, it is clear that Leah is paranoid, anxious, and more than a little traumatised. She displays all of the typical signs: the restlessness, the silence and lapses of attention, the wariness. It seems cut and dry enough, but as Jenny sits and waits for Leah to finish her usual circuit of the room before the session, checking under things like books and screens as blatantly as she likes, she cannot help but think that there’s much more to the surface with this girl.

“Satisfied?” She asks, a wry smile on her face that is meant to put Leah at ease, but the teenager just sends her a cold look, settling onto the sofa with a reluctant sigh. Jenny knows that her parents are sending here, but she also knows that Leah asked for a therapist, which seems a little strange considering her uncooperativeness. She had asked her once, why she resisted so much when this had been a choice, and a strange expression had passed over Leah’s face; one of wistfulness, regret and weariness all at the same time. Eventually, she had just mumbled something about a promise to try, and Jenny had simply nodded and let Leah sit with that for a while. She hadn’t bothered asking the girl if she felt like she was holding up that promise, as the tense line of her shoulders and drawn brow already answered that question.

“How have things been lately?” She asks now, watching as Leah just leans back, an unreadable expression passing over her face. The teenager shrugs, looking away quickly. The girl could have a good poker face when she needs to, but Jenny isn’t fooled at all by this. “How’s Fatin?”

Leah stiffens now. Anger flashes in her features, a quick scathing glare directed Jenny’s way, before she schools her face back into her regular mask. Jenny is pretty sure that Leah never meant to show just how much Fatin means to her — maybe she saw it as a weakness or something too private to discuss in these sessions, but it is clear that if there is one gateway into getting Leah to talk about the island, its mentioning Fatin: it either leads to a story tangentially attached to the other girl, as a way of trying to avoid answering the question but still seem cooperative, or a complete change of subject that often leads to another discovery anyway.

“She’s fine, I guess,” Leah relents, shrugging slightly, but Jenny has spent too long learning how to read people to miss the soft blush dusting her cheeks. She knows that there is more to the story between the two of them, but Leah doesn’t respond well to being pushed. To feeling interrogated. Knowing the truth of her past, Jenny can forgive that.

She smiles at Leah now, hoping to put her a little at ease. “And how have you been sleeping lately.”

Something flickers in Leah’s eyes, and she rubs a head wearily across her jaw. “Not great, to be honest,” the girl finally admits, staring down at her hands. Her fingers fidget and tap and rub together, her restlessness an obvious manifestation of her fear and anxiety.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jenny tries, chuckling a little when Leah scoffs and shakes her head. “Do you think we should talk about it?” She amends, and Leah gives a small smile of acquiescence.

“Yeah, probably,” she concedes a little reluctantly. Silence fills the air between them for a second, its presence weighty and heavy and Jenny waits for her to begin again. Leah leans back, eyes unfocused as she thinks, sighing a little to myself. “It just doesn’t feel right, I don’t know why.”

Jenny lets the admission lie for a little, giving Leah time to gather her thoughts, until it becomes clear that Leah won’t elaborate without some prompting. “What do you mean, ‘right’? Your sleep doesn’t feel right or trying to sleep doesn’t feel right?”

Leah shrugs again, a little weakly, but takes a deep breath all the same. “All of it, I guess. It feels like I’m forgetting something. Like I can’t sleep until I’ve done what I would have had to do on the island.”

Jenny hums. “Talk me through what you had to do there, then.”

Taken aback, Leah stares at her for a beat, before slowly elaborating. “Well, I guess first make sure that someone was up for watch. We didn’t want our fire going out on the beach and missing our ‘rescue’. Then, I guess making sure that all our food was packed away or hung high to stop bears or wild animals getting to it in the night. Checking on all the girls and making sure that they were either asleep or okay and present. Just stuff that we had to do that I don’t have to now, and it feels weird.”

“Do you think that there’s a way of incorporating those same things into a routine here?” Jenny suggests, knowing that transitioning from situations of stress to situations of safety was all about easing oneself into it and shifting routines bit by bit was much easier than jumping straight into trying to live a normal life.

Leah stares at her hands for a second, almost looking like she doesn’t recognise them as she traces the lines on her palm, littered with pale thin scars and burns and marks. “Maybe checking in with people before I sleep. Like Fatin.” Jenny is pretty sure that Leah doesn’t realise that she smiles every time she says the other girl’s name, but she doesn’t say anything as she watches the teenager turn the question over and over in her hand. “Maybe walking around the kitchen and making sure everything is away and off?” Leah looks up, almost as if she’s searching for approval, and something eases in her expression when Jenny nods at her.

“What was sleeping on the island like?” She keeps pushing, a familiar brun rising in her chest at the signs of breaking through with a difficult patient. Leah goes even quieter, every muscle in her body tense until she slumps forward, hands wringing and not looking at Jenny at all.

The words are mumbled, but she can hear them all the same. “Terrifying until it wasn’t.” Silence hangs until she leans back again, huffing slightly. Her leg jostles as if she wants to pace, to move, but she settles for rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. “In the beginning, I didn’t even want to close my eyes. Maybe to not miss rescue, maybe to get all the information I could about what was happening around me, maybe just because I couldn’t believe what was happening. But then, it was like I had never slept without the sound of the ocean or animals in the undergrowth and the wind in the trees.” Knowing the situation Leah had been in, Jenny is hesitant to label her tone as wistful, but with the smile tugging at the corner of the teenager’s mouth, that’s almost what it seems like.

“Have you thought about trying white noise machines that are supposed to sound like those things?” Jenny suggests, but Leah frowns, screwing up her nose in distaste.

“Yeah, but they’re kind of shit. It’s all the audio without any of the smell of salt or dirt or the feel of sand on your skin or tree bark on your back. I think it just reminds me more of the fact that I’m not there anymore.”

There we go.

“Do you wish you still were?” Jenny asks quietly, smiling internally when Leah stops for a second and truly considers the question.

Her words aren’t sure and certain but they are measured and careful and steady. “I don’t think so. I think it’s more that I can’t believe I’m not.”

Jenny leans forward, excitement thrumming in her veins. There truly was nothing like watching someone figure out something that’s been bothering their subconscious and seeing the realisation break across their features. “How so?”

“Well, rescue came. And as much as I thought it was bullshit, we were told over and over that we were safe and it was over. And then it wasn’t and we were on another island again and it’s like I was on high alert for three and a half months straight. Everyone keeps telling me that it’s over, that no-one’s watching or recording me, that no-one’s testing me, but that doesn’t stop me from checking every room for mics or cameras.” Leah says matter of factly, and Jenny can see why. It’s the same kind of paranoia often seen in soldiers or other people coming out of situations where they had been on guard for a long time. Leah chuckles a little bitterly, a wry smile creeping over her face as she finally makes eye contact, and Jenny finds herself a little taken aback by the emptiness in her eyes. “The first night I was back, I tore my room to pieces and cried when I couldn’t find anything because I didn’t know if that meant I had just failed.”

“And now?” Jenny asks, watching closely as Leah shrugs.

“Comes and goes,” the girl before her grins drily, and she is like no patient Jenny has ever had before.

She clears her throat, looking down at her notes in an effort to reset, ignoring the little chuckle from Leah. “Did you sleep in the bunker?”

Leah stiffens and doesn’t say anything for a long while. “You know, the bunker was actually worse than the islands,” she says, looking into the middle distance as she skirts the question. “You wouldn’t expect that. We had food, proper clothes, and medical attention. For a while, we almost thought we were okay. But for me at least, it was so much fucking worse.” Leah’s voice finally breaks, cracking over the words as she swallows down some kind of emotion. This part always makes Jenny feel a little soulless, sitting calmly whilst watching someone get emotional and know that she had prompted it.

“What made it worse?”

“Everything,” she sighs, looking away. “Not seeing the others, knowing that there was something going on that they weren’t telling me, having to lie and act and pretend. Being torn apart and questioned and interrogating like some kind of fucking test subject, because that’s what we fucking were.” Anger rises in her tone, but it's more terrifying in its flatness. Leah doesn’t burn bright, but she burns hot as she glares at Jenny, spitting the words.

Jenny waits, watching Leah smoulder before her until she deflates slightly, rubbing a hand across her eyes wearily. “Could you sleep there?”

“No.” The response is flat and factual.

“Why not?”

Sighing, Leah fixes her with a tired smile, acquiescing reluctantly. “I was being watched. Could you sleep then?”

“But you slept on the first, despite your suspicions. Did you sleep on the second island? Knowing you were still being watched?” Jenny pushes. Leah looks at her coldly.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

Jenny swallows hard but stands her ground. “No. I just think that you haven’t considered everything.”

“Yes. I slept. Not great, but yes.”

“Why?”

The response comes after almost minutes of silence, and Leah’s voice cracks and breaks over the one word she speaks. “Fatin.”

Finally.

“Do you and Fatin still try and go to sleep in the same bed?” Leah nods wordlessly. She just looks tired now, all of her anger washed away and replaced with something like bitterness. “So why doesn’t it help now?”

Leah looks at her hands. “I would do anything for Fatin, you know?” She replies, and it both is and isn’t an answer.

Jenny waits for a second before going for it. “Do you think she would do anything for you?”

Leah swallows hard. She looks down, then away. Then up. “I don’t know,” she finally whispers. “Maybe.”

“Would you let her?”

A small, wet chuckle. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me, doc. You know most of all this shit by now. You treat someone like a lifeboat for too long and they’ll resent you, no matter what they say.” Leah’s words are bitter and angry, but mainly just sad. Jenny tries not to give away the genuine spark of sadness in her chest that rises up to her throat.

She lets Leah sit in the silence for a beat, before pressing forward, reluctantly to let their progress stagnate. “Does Fatin struggle? Has she struggled after the island?” Leah’s blank stare is answer enough. “If you are always focused on what you think other people deserve, Leah,” Jenny says softly, leaning forward as some of her earnestness slips into her tone, “you might be ignoring what they want.”

Leah doesn’t say anything for the rest of the session, simply sitting in the silence and Jenny lets her. The second the clocks tick over to the hour mark, Leah is up and out of her seat, not even looking back as the door closes behind her in a half-slam. Jenny smiles a little to herself. Finally, progress.