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There's not any enormous thing that leads to it in the end.
There's no one shiny moment of revelation. No one experience that lights the circuit, no conversation that suddenly makes her pour her memories out and realize.
It is a hundred small things that all piled up. A simmering sauce pan on the back burner, kept just-barely-warm for as long as it took, until it finally boils over and it has been led to this knowledge; this horrible, awful, searing, tearing, knowledge; by a thousand steps she didn't know were taking her there.
It is there in patches.
So many moments. In flashes that don’t line up right.
All the catcalls that were supposed to be compliments.
All the looks that lingered too long to be accidental.
The hunger behind people’s eyes; the way it sharpened when she smiled, when she didn’t, when she won.
All the touches, all the statements, all the clicks on social media twisting and twisting into something grotesque and wrong. The ignoring and the telling and the way it made things worse. The lesson after lesson after lesson that taught her the same thing, over and over.
Caitlin is four, she is six, she is fifteen, she is eight. She is twelve. She is a thousand years old.
She is body and fear and static.
She is shaking and trembling and braced for an impact she is sure is coming-
So when Kelsey Plum waves a hand in front of her face in the hotel lobby; gentle, at first, amused; it lands like a trigger pulled too close to her ear.
“Hey. Caitlin?”
The world tilts.
Caitlin stumbles back, heel catching on the strap of her gym bag she forgot she was carrying, forgot she owned, forgot existed at all; neck over ass over gym bag; gravity sudden and decisive.
She goes down hard, palms slapping marble, the sound echoing too loud, too public, too seen.
The wave crashes.
The crowded court. Strangers on the street. Men in her building. Boys at school.
Smiles that demanded gratitude. Praise wrapped around obligation. Gifts that weren’t gifts at all.
And it’s the feeling of nails digging into her neck, a stronger body pressing her in, further in, the way she can't use or feel some of her thighs, her chest, the way she can't walk with her body open anymore even if she tries.
Cameras flashing.
Always flashing
It’s her desperation to never force any of the children she interacts with to hug her, or smile, or talk, or even just give a wave or high-five. The way she only ever offers them multiple options—fist bump, high five, hug, wave, nothing at all—and never, ever acts upset or disappointed no matter what they choose. Even if their parents try to guilt them into something. Especially then.
The memory of how much she loved him.
The memory of how much he made her afraid.
Kelsey steps closer.
Her expression pinched into something more concerned. Worried.
Caitlin’s body reacts like it always has.
She scrambles up too fast, knees buckling, balance off.
Steps back.
Then another step.
Distance at any cost.
“I-I- Sorry. I’m fine.”
She hears herself say, the words automatic, useless, untrue.
The lobby feels hostile now. Too bright. Too open. Too crowded with eyes that aren’t even looking at her and her lungs won’t cooperate. Her skin is wrong. Too tight, too loud, too visible.
She feels, like she sometimes always feels, like she might be about to die.
She takes another step back.
Another.
Then she turns.
Walks.
She leaves her bag where it fell.
Leaves her phone.
Leaves Kelsey.
Leaves everything.
Walks right out the lobby and wants to rip off her skin.
She wants to claw at her own face until it’s unrecognizable.
She wants to be ugly. She wants to be invisible. She cannot hold the knowledge she knows. She cannot have this body. It's not hers. She can't own this. It's too much. It's just a trap.
Her clothes are a prison, and they're the only thing protecting her from the world.
Caitlin yanks at the collar of her USA sweats, feels her practice jersey sticking to her skin, too tight, too sticky, and pants for air as she picks up speed, walking fast past streaks of headlights and campus lights and blurred faces.
Someone honks.
Voices wash past her, meaningless noise.
She walks anyway. Walks walks walks walks—
Misses the curb.
Her knee slams down hard, bone rattling, pain sharp and bright, but it barely penetrates.
Just a tap on the glass of her awareness.
Unimportant.
Almost helpful.
She’s back up before anyone finishes asking if she’s okay, doesn’t hear the Duke student’s concern at all.
Maybe she’s running.
Maybe she’s trying to.
The strap on her left slide tears suddenly, jerking her ankle sideways. She gasps, stops short, breath hitching.
She rips the shoes off with shaking hands and traps them in one fist.
Her vision is tunneled now, like she’s watching through a windshield that isn’t quite clean. She’s piloting her eyes. Piloting her hands. Piloting a body that doesn’t feel attached to her anymore.
Her fingers clamp around the useless slides.
Her feet hit the pavement.
And she keeps walking.
… … …
Caitlin is quiet when the doors to Duke’s practice facility slide open with a quiet hiss.
Her pulse isn’t racing, her body isn’t trying to get out of her skin.
Which feels like proof, somehow, that she’s fine.
She’s just been walking for… a while.
She’s just been walking for a while.
Not running, so there’s no reason to be out of breath.
Not panicking, so there’s no reason her hands should feel this far away from her.
The lobby smells faintly like cleaner and rubber and something stale she can’t place. The lights are bright in a way that makes everything look flatter than it should.
Sonia Citron looks up from one of the lobby lounge chairs.
“Caitlin?”
The sound of her name lands wrong.
There’s something in Sonia’s face; something careful, something sharp at the edges; that Caitlin isn’t used to and she doesn't understand.
Caitlin is Caitlin. Sonia is Sonia.
They have history: U19s, All-Star, camps, shared locker rooms and shared jokes and easy familiarity. Usually it’s CC or Cait and a grin and a peace sign, a wordless acknowledgment if she’s preoccupied.
Sonia yerehas never looked at her like this.
Like Caitlin is someone standing on a ledge.
She isn't on a ledge, is she?
She’s on the floor.
She looks down at her feet to double check.
Ten toes. Wiggle against laminate.
She has it right, it's just a floor.
She’s fine.
There are a handful of other people in the lobby.
“Caitlin?”
Sonia is asking again, putting her phone down, standing up.
Caitlin steps back.
The laminate floor feels cold.
It's usually cold here.
It was cold outside too.
Sonia blinks and Caitlin is fine and Sonia sits back down.
Grabs her phone.
Doesn’t take her eyes off of Caitlin.
“Hey…”
Sonia is saying and there are more words, but Caitlin doesn’t really hear.
There are a handful of other people in the lobby.
They are all watching Caitlin.
A woman. A kid with a nasty, rattling cough. Two Duke students by the trophy case pretending very badly not to stare. Further back, an older man with a janitor’s mop and bucket, frozen mid-step.
Caitlin steps sideways this time.
Her socks squish.
"Caitlin," Sonia says carefully. "Are you… Do you need help?"
She’s looking at her.
Not straight on, but angled, like she’s trying not to corner her.
Careful. Quiet. Unsure.
Caitlin blinks.
Does she need help?
She doesn't even know why she's here. Scrimmage ended hours ago, she’s supposed to be- supposed to be at the hotel.
She left the hotel.
The realization hits late, dull and heavy.
Shit.
She left all her stuff in the hotel lobby.
Her bag.
Her phone.
Everything.
Shit.
Her stomach drops.
She’s going to be in so much trouble.
"Honey, are you okay?"
It's the woman with the coughing kid.
It’s a nasty cough.
The cough sounds awful, deep and wet, like it hurts. Someone should probably get him medicine. A cough drop. A lollipop at least.
Caitlin opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
The question just hangs there, suspended between them.
Are you okay?
Like it’s something she could grab onto if she wanted to. Like it’s solid. Like it wouldn’t crumble the second she touched it.
“I-” she starts, and stops.
The sound feels wrong in her throat. Too loud. Too real.
She closes her mouth again.
Her jaw aches from how tight she’s clenching it.
The woman with the coughing kid is still watching her. So is Sonia. So is everyone else. Caitlin can feel the attention the way she feels cold and warm seeping through her socks.
Slow, invasive, impossible to ignore.
She takes another small step sideways.
She takes another breath.
It feels shallow. Insufficient. Like it doesn’t reach all the way down.
Her chest tightens, not fast, not explosive, but slow, creeping, like something is winding a cord around her ribs. The pressure builds without urgency, without release.
Sonia has her phone next to her ear now.
Caitlin shifts her weight.
She feels heavy and light at the same time, like gravity hasn’t decided what to do with her yet. The floor isn’t helping, all uneven, like it might tilt if she leans too far in either direction.
The woman with the coughing kid moves a little, murmurs something soothing that Caitlin can’t quite hear. The kid keeps coughing anyway. Each sound scrapes against Caitlin’s nerves until they feel raw, exposed.
The janitor slowly lowers his mop. The students look away at the same time, as if coordinated, which somehow makes it worse. The pretending. The politeness.
Why…
Why did she come here?
Why is she here…
She wants to run.
She wants to sit down.
She wants to disappear into the laminate and be nothing at all.
She does none of it.
Her eyes burn. Not with tears; those feel too far away; but with the effort of keeping them open, of keeping the world in focus. The edges keep fuzzing out, soft and dark and she stands there, quiet and wrong and exposed, while the world closes in around her-
"Cait?"
That's a voice Caitlin knows, a voice like Sonia. That voice that lives and breathes like the rest of them and Caitlin knows it.
Sonia is standing again, Caitlin’s not sure when she did that, but she's not moving.
Where…
"Cait.”
Paige is a blur of navy and red cotton, leaning out one of the side doors that leads out of the lobby and into the hallway and… the side door… the side door... this isn't the right way to come in.
Caitlin is supposed to come in the back. Through the players entrance.
She messed it up. First she left the hotel, and now she came to the practice facility wrong, and she's- she's-
"Cait, come over here for sec."
Paige says again, casual but deliberate.
Caitlin pauses. Sonia pauses. The kid is looking at her.
He coughs again.
But Paige is holding the door open like she’s holding a basketball waiting for Caitlin to step on the gym with her and her free arm is still, held out and aimed into the hallway, and she isn't looking away from Caitlin. So maybe she just wants Caitlin to come in the front way instead of leaving and walking around the back.
The room tilts a fraction, like it’s waiting to see what she’ll choose.
Caitlin comes.
She steps forward, slowly, the weight of her own body unfamiliar, like she’s moving through water that isn’t there. Her socks squish against the laminate again, and every squeak feels louder than it should.
Paige doesn’t flinch at the sound, doesn’t flinch at anything, just keeps the door open and waits like it’s nothing.
“Hey.”
Paige says, voice low, casual, but there’s a tightness under it Caitlin can’t place.
There are more words, not to her, floating past her to Sonia.
It’s cold here.
It was cold out there too.
Caitlin inhales shakily. Her chest aches. Her stomach twists.
There are a handful of other people in the lobby. Sonia too.
The door closes and they all disappear.
Then it’s just Paige looking at Caitlin and Caitlin trying, failing to look back.
“You okay?”
Paige asks, softer this time.
Not a real question, more like a lifeline thrown across a void.
The words slide past Caitlin without sticking.
Her hands are numb and she left the hotel and she came in the wrong way.
Paige nods like she expected that.
Like this is confirmation of something she’s already figured out.
Paige gestures down the narrow hallway that splits the lobby from the training rooms.
“Let’s get you to the training room.”
The blonde doesn't say much more than that and her shoes squeak quietly against the floor as she walks, each step deliberate.
Caitlin can’t feel her hands and her ears feel crowded, like sound is pressing in from every angle, and she came in the wrong way but she follows like it makes sense even when it doesn’t.
A handful of steps that are inches miles marathons.
She stands just inside the doorway of room three.
Paige is a few feet further inside, where she walked after making sure the door clicked shut.
And she's watching Caitlin, and Caitlin is there, and Paige is there, and what are they supposed to be doing right now?
“You should sit.”
Paige says, still perfectly calm, perfectly even.
What?
Caitlin isn't even supposed to be here.
She's supposed to be at the hotel.
"I'm going to be in so much trouble," is what Caitlin’s body says instead.
The words finally come, cracked and wrong. Her voice sounds like it belongs to someone younger. Smaller.
Paige’s eyebrows knit for just a second at the word, then smooth back out like she’s consciously easing her face into something safer.
"Trouble?"
Paige echoes. Same tone. Same steady calm. Like she’s talking to someone who might spook if she raised her voice.
Caitlin stares at the floor instead of her.
The tiles here are a dull gray, scuffed in thin white arcs from years of sneakers pivoting too hard. She focuses on one of the arcs until it blurs.
“You’re not in trouble, Caitlin."
Paige says after another beat, eyes moving—not darting, not frantic, just… taking inventory. Caitlin can feel it, the way you can feel someone counting the seconds between your breaths.
She wants to cry, but the tears won’t come. She doesn’t know why she’s here. Why she left the hotel. Why the lobby and the walk and the wrong doors feel like climbing stairs that don’t exist.
“Can you sit down for me?” Paige asks again, gently this time. “Just for a sec.”
Caitlin frowns. She looks down at herself, like she’s checking for missing limbs.
“I’m standing,” she says.
It feels like the important part.
“I know,” Paige says. “But you should probably sit.”
“Why?”
Paige hesitates. It’s brief; barely there, but Caitlin catches it because everything feels slowed, stretched thin and-
Paige exhales through her nose and crouches slightly, not all the way down, just enough to angle her gaze lower.
“Your feet,” she says, carefully. “They’re bleeding.”
Caitlin blinks.
Looks down.
Her socks are red at the toes. Darker at the heels.
Not dramatic. Not spraying.
Just red blooming into white fabric like spilled ink in water.
The laminate beneath her is smeared, footprints trailing in a faint, uneven path behind her like she’s been leaking something important for a while.
Huh.
She waits for the pain to arrive. For the delayed signal. For something sharp and corrective.
Nothing does.
The information arrives without urgency, without emotion. Just a fact, filed alongside ten toes and cold floors.
“They don’t hurt.”
She whispers faintly. Like that solves it.
Paige’s mouth tightens. Not a smile. Not a frown. Something held together by will.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know.”
Caitlin shifts her weight without thinking. Her sock sticks to the floor for half a second before peeling free with a soft, awful sound.
Paige flinches this time. Just a little.
“Hey,” Paige says, still calm but firmer now. “Don’t do that.”
Caitlin freezes.
“Sorry,” she says automatically, even though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Paige says. “I just don’t want you putting more pressure on them.”
Pressure. Caitlin considers this.
Paige glances at the door. Glances back at Caitlin.
“They look like they hurt,” Paige adds, voice low. “Even if you can’t feel it.”
Caitlin nods, because that sounds reasonable. Because Paige sounds reasonable. Because Paige is here and she’s talking like things still have order.
She sits.
The vinyl is stiff under her thighs. The paper crinkles loudly when she shifts, the sound echoing too much in the small room.
It doesn’t make anything worse.
Doesn’t make anything better either.
She should probably clean it.
The floor.
She's going to be in even more trouble. She came here and she's causing problems and leaving biohazard material all over Duke’s floors, and that's so much extra work, and she needs to clean it up, because it's her mess, and she's so bad, and she doesn't understand where the blood is coming from, but it's from her and it's on the floor. It's from her, and it's on the floor.
She tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat is too big. It’s lodged somewhere in her lungs, in her stomach, in the hollow she feels behind her eyes.
Paige grabs a rolling stool, avoids the trail, and sits near her, close enough that Caitlin can see the tiny crease between her brows that only shows up when she’s worried and trying not to be.
"Caitlin?" Paige starts, hesitant. "Caitlin, I need to ask you one thing okay?”
She doesn’t sound annoyed. That’s worse.
She doesn’t frown when Caitlin doesn’t respond. She doesn’t sigh.
She just… stays.
Shifts her weight.
Checks her phone without really looking at it. Glances at the door. Then back to Caitlin.
Thinking.
Measuring.
Mulling over the cost of whatever she’s about to say.
“Are you safe?”
The concern isn’t hidden anymore; it’s right there in Paige's eyes, naked and unmistakable.
Caitlin’s heartbeat roars in her ears so loud it drowns out the room, or maybe it’s the room that’s roaring back at her: the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the cold paper humming under her feet, the air itself vibrating like it’s wound too tight.
She forgets how breathing works.
She just needs to clean the blood off the floor.
That’s the thought that sticks. The only one that makes sense.
She shouldn’t have left it there. It’s messy. It’s proof. It’s another thing she did wrong.
“Cait, please…” Paige says gently, and now there’s urgency under it. “If you're in danger, we need to know so we can keep you safe.”
Caitlin shakes her head.
She’s not, not safe.
Never has been really.
So nothing hasn’t changed.
And she isn’t less safe.
She shakes her head again.
“Are you sure? You look like…you might have been running away from something. Did something happen after practice?"
Caitlin doesn’t answer.
Can’t
Words won’t stick.
Hotel.
Hotel.
She's supposed to be at the hotel, and now she's way across campus with bloody feet and no explanation and she can already feel the weight of it crashing down and she needs to clean up her blood.
“Cait,” Paige tries again, voice low, coaxing. “How did you get here?”
Silence.
Then there’s a soft double knock at the door.
Caitlin flinches so hard it hurts.
She knows that knock.
She knows that knock.
And it doesn't matter, and she pulls her feet up to tuck them in front of her, heels to her thighs, chin behind her knees, squeezing her arms around her legs like they're the only thing holding the tattered scraps of her in one place.
And it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter-
Paige makes a cut-off sound and her eyes go wide, just for a second, before she schools her face into something careful and neutral.
She doesn’t say anything.
She looks away instead, toward the door. Swallows. Looks back at Caitlin.
It’s quick, but Caitlin sees it. The calculation. The question. The silent are you okay with this? that she doesn’t have the words for and can’t answer.
She doesn’t nod.
She doesn’t shake her head.
She just sits there, pinned in place by her own weight.
Paige exhales and makes the decision for her.
“You can come in, Sue.”
The blonde’s voice wavers. Just once.
And Caitlin digs her nails into her skin and tries not to think about the way everything is about to fall apart forever. She's ruined everything, and everyone is going to be so angry, and she's going to be in so much trouble, and it's going to start right now, right in here.
The door opens.
Not fast. Not violently.
Just enough to let Sue Bird step into the room like she’s entering somewhere fragile.
Caitlin doesn’t look up.
She doesn’t need to.
She knows that presence the way she knows gravity. The way she knows when a gym goes quiet before someone yells. The way she knows authority without seeing it.
Sue Bird is here.
Everything in Caitlin’s body tightens at once, like a wire pulled too far, too fast.
Her shoulders curl inward. Her chin presses harder into her knees. Her hands clutch at her own arms like she’s trying to hold herself together before she comes apart in front of someone important.
Important people mean consequences.
Important people mean rules.
Important people mean punishment.
Someone sucks in a breath.
Releases it.
“Caitlin…”
Sue’s voice is quieter than she expects.
“I heard you were having a rough time.”
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. Her throat too tight to push sound through. She keeps her eyes on the paper crumpled under her feet, at the dark red smears she refuses to look at directly but can feel anyway. Sticky. Undeniable.
Caitlin tracks her by sound instead, shoes on tile, the faint rustle of fabric, the door clicking closed.
“I’ve got it from here,” Sue says gently, not to her, about her.
“Paige, can you grab the trainer? And maybe-” a pause, careful, deliberate, “-give us a few minutes.”
Paige hesitates.
Caitlin feels it like static.
She risks a glance over, just barely, and sees Paige’s jaw clenched tight, her hands fisted in her hoodie sleeves, eyes darting between Sue and Caitlin like she’s weighing something heavy.
“You sure?”
Paige asks.
Sue nods once. Calm. Steady.
“I’ve got her.”
The words make Caitlin’s stomach twist.
Got her.
Like possession. Like responsibility. Like consequences.
Makes sense.
Paige probably shouldn't see this.
The blonde swallows.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be right outside.”
She stands, slow and reluctant.
“Cait,” Paige murmurs. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”
Caitlin looks away.
If she meets Paige’s eyes, she might cry.
If she cries, everything will get worse
Paige leaves anyway.
The door clicks shut.
The sound is final.
Now it’s just Sue and Caitlin and the blood on the floor.
… …. ..
The room feels smaller immediately, like the walls have edged closer while she wasn’t looking. The hum of the lights grows louder.
Her heartbeat pounds so hard she’s sure Sue can hear it.
Sue doesn’t move closer.
She doesn’t sit at first.
She just stands there, hands loose at her sides, giving Caitlin space she doesn’t know how to fill.
“Caitlin,” Sue says again, quieter this time. “Can you look at me?”
No.
No, she can’t.
Looking means seeing her face. Means seeing what’s coming.
“I know you’re scared,” Sue continues, voice low, even. “But you’re not in trouble.”
Caitlin nails dig into her arms harder, crescents biting into skin, refusing still to look.
She blinks once. Swallows hard.
She knows better than to believe that.
“Kelsey has your bag and your phone, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
More people she’s inconvenienced.
More problems she’s caused.
More punishment earned.
More.
“I-”
Caitlin starts, then stops.
Her throat locks up. Her teeth chatter once, sharp and humiliating.
She swallows.
“I’m sorry.”
The words fall out of her mouth thin and cracked.
“Caitlin…”
Sue’s voice is soft, careful. Like she’s stepping over cracks in ice.
She pulls over the rolling stool Paige had been sitting on closer and lowers herself onto it, putting herself at Caitlin’s level. Not above. Not looming.
That somehow makes it worse.
“There’s no need to apologize. You’re not in trouble.”
Caitlin swallows.
No.
No.
Caitlin knows.
She knows she’s in trouble.
“I’m sorry.”
She whispers again.
She messed up. She knows she did. She doesn’t know to what extent yet, only that something went wrong enough for Sue to be here, kneeling in front of her, quiet in that way that means disappointment hasn’t turned sharp yet.
That’s worse.
Her skin feels too tight, buzzing again, like it doesn’t belong to her anymore. Her arms ache where her nails bit in, but the pain is already fading, already not enough to keep her anchored.
Say it right.
Say it before she gets in more trouble.
“I-”
Caitlin tries again.
Her voice cracks in half. She hates it. Hates how weak it sounds. Weak gets punished. Weak invites it.
Her throat closes.
She swallows around it, forces the words out anyway.
"Please," Caitlin begs. "Please just do it."
Sue stills completely.
"Do what?"
"Please," Caitlin repeats. "Please."
"Caitlin, what do you need me to do?"
Need?
Caitlin doesn't want it, but Coach is right, she does need it. She's been bad. This is the consequence.
He told her so. He said it clearly.
She knew what would happen if she ever messed up and showed something was wrong.
She feels his breath on the back of her neck.
Heat.
A presence too close, too solid.
He’s pressing up behind her, hands firm on her hips, a voice low and satisfied in her ear telling her this is what happens when she messes up.
Telling her to be still.
Telling her this is how she learns.
Caitlin’s breath stutters violently.
She curls in tighter, shaking.
"I know you gotta punish me," Caitlin bites out. "Please. Please just do it.”
She waits for the shift.
The click.
The moment where Sue’s voice hardens and everything finally makes sense again.
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, there’s a sharp, quiet inhale, too fast, too controlled to be casual.
“No.”
Sue says.
It’s not loud. It’s not angry.
It’s immediate.
Caitlin flinches anyway, curling tighter, shoulders up around her ears like she’s bracing for impact.
“No,” Sue repeats, slower this time. Firmer. “Caitlin, I am not going to punish you.”
Caitlin shakes her head violently, the motion jerky, uncoordinated. Sue doesn’t understand. She can’t. Important people always say that right before they do it anyway.
“You have to,” Caitlin insists, voice breaking apart. “That’s- that’s how this works. I messed up. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I-”
Her breath catches painfully.
“I-I- scared Kelsey and… and-and Sonia and Paige and the kid. I made a mess. I- I bled on the floor.”
Her gaze flicks, traitorous, to the red stains by her feet.
Proof.
“I’m bad,” she says hoarsely. “I know I am. I just- please, I just need you to get it over with.”
The room is so quiet she can hear the lights buzzing overhead, can hear her own pulse roaring in her ears.
Sue doesn’t move.
When she speaks again, her voice is different, tight around the edges, like she’s holding something heavy together with her bare hands.
“Caitlin. You and I are together in this room, and I'm not going to hurt you. No matter how many times you ask.”
The words drift past Caitlin like they’re underwater.
“I’ll be good,” Caitlin whispers to no one, to everyone. “I won’t fight. I promise. I won’t make it harder. Just-just do it and then I can stop being bad.”
She presses her forehead harder into her knees. Tears she hasn’t let herself feel yet prick at the corners of her eyes. Her body shudders. She feels the imagined presence again-the hands, the voice, the pressure-but this time Sue’s voice cuts through it, thin as a blade but warm enough to carve a path out.
“Caitlin.”
Sue shifts gently, bringing her hand closer to rest lightly on the edge of the table, the corner furthest from Caitlin, just enough to anchor her, just enough to whisper through the storm.
“You're not being bad. You don’t need punishment. You need to breathe. You need to let someone be here with you. And you just need to breathe. Okay?”
Caitlin’s chest jerks violently. She wants to. She wants to unspool all of it. She wants to breathe. But the blood, the fear, the memory of him, of what she cannot say, it all presses down on her, crushing.
Her body feels too heavy, her skin too tight, her chest too small for her lungs.
She wants to. Shewantswantswants-
“Caitlin, listen to me. Look at me.”
Sue’s voice cuts through again. Through the chaos like a tether.
Caitlin does. Just barely. Eyes red, wild, glassy from just beyond her knees.
Heart hammering like it will burst.
Sue meets her eyes directly.
Her gaze is firm. Gentle. Impossibly patient. Like she has all the time in the world and is willing to spend it right here.
“I need to understand what you think is happening right now.”
Caitlin blinks, blinks too much, too many times, but her eyes burn and her vision swims with tears and her mind races through impossible loops: He told me. He said it. I can’t. I shouldn’t. I’m bad. I’m bad. I’m bad.
And Sue won’t stop looking at her.
Won’t stop looking at her like she cares.
“What do you think is happening right now?”
She repeats gently.
Caitlin’s mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Her jaw works uselessly, a silent stutter. The question circles in her head, bumps into locked doors, into rules etched so deep they feel like law.
She shakes her head instead. Small. Panicked.
“I-”
Her voice catches immediately.
She swallows hard, throat burning.
“I’m… I’m not-”
Sue watches her closely, eyes sharp but soft, reading everything Caitlin isn’t saying.
“You’re not what?”
Sue asks.
Caitlin’s chest tightens until it hurts. Her hands clench in the fabric of her sweats, tries desperately to anchor her self there.
Her heart is racing again, too fast, too loud.
“I’m not allowed.”
Her voice cracks, barely a whisper.
Sue stills.
“Not allowed to what?”
Her gaze skids away from Sue’s face, lands anywhere else. The floor. The wall. The door. Anywhere that doesn’t look back.
The room feels like it’s tilting, like the floor is trying to slide out from under her.
“To talk about it.”
The words come out rushed, brittle, like if she doesn’t say them fast enough they’ll be taken from her.
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
Sue doesn’t react the way Caitlin expects.
She doesn’t nod like that makes sense.
She doesn’t accept it.
“Why?”
Sue asks quietly.
The word hits Caitlin like a punch to the chest.
Why?
Her breath stutters. Her vision blurs at the edges. She shakes her head again, more violently this time.
“I can’t,” she insists. “I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to. If I do-”
Her voice breaks completely.
Sue leans forward just a fraction, careful not to crowd her, giving Caitlin the space she’s screaming to take, the space she’s too frozen to reach.
“If you do what?”
Caitlin’s whole body is buzzing now, electricity crawling under her skin.
Her thoughts scatter, fracture.
“If I talk,” she gasps, “then I’m lying. And if I’m lying, then I’m bad. And if I’m bad-”
Her breath cuts off halfway in. Her words tangle. Collapse in on themselves.
Caitlin lets out a broken sound; half laugh, half sob, wrong.
“Who told you you’re not allowed to talk about it, Caitlin?”
Sue’s voice stays steady, but there’s an edge to it now. Something sharp and protective underneath.
She can feel him again suddenly, close and certain and unavoidable. The warning tone. The smile that never reached his eyes.
This stays between us.
People wouldn’t understand.
You don’t want to ruin things, do you?
Don’t.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say his name.
Her hands tremble. The numbness in her fingers fights against the pins of pain she’s digging into her arms. Every nerve endings screams. She wants to disappear. Wants to crawl inside herself and stay there forever.
“I… I...”
Her voice is threadbare, gone raw from the repetition of words that aren’t enough.
Don’t.
Don’t say it.
Don’t make it real.
Her fingers curl into fists against her arms.
She shakes her head, small and frantic, like she can physically dislodge the words before they reach her mouth.
“He did.”
The words escape before she can stop it.
Her whole body jerks like she’s been shocked.
Caitlin breathes in.
The sound alone feels like betrayal.
Sue doesn’t move.
But something in her eyes goes very still. Very cold.
Very certain.
“Oh,” Sue says quietly.
Caitlin freezes, breath trapped halfway in. Her heart slams so violently it makes her dizzy.
“I didn’t-” she rushes, panic flaring white-hot. “I didn’t mean- I shouldn’t have-”
Hey,” Sue says immediately, grounding, calm. “You’re okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Caitlin shakes her head violently.
“I wasn’t supposed to say that,” she gasps. “I wasn’t supposed to- he said-”
Her voice collapses completely.
This time, the tears come, not clean, not relieving, just leaking out like everything else has been leaking.
Just real.
Her breath breaks. She can’t get enough air. Her hands fly to her chest like she can physically hold her heart in place.
Sue moves closer then. Slow. Deliberate. Sitting fully in front of her now, blocking out the rest of the room.
“Look at me,” Sue says, devastatingly gentle. “Just for one second.”
Caitlin resists.
Then—finally—she lifts her head.
Her face is wrecked. Tear-streaked. Eyes red and glassy and terrified. There is nothing left to hide behind.
Sue’s expression changes when she sees her.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
Something darker. Sharper. Protective.
“You are not in trouble,” Sue says, each word precise. “You are not bad. And whatever someone told you to keep you quiet, whatever rules they gave you, those rules do not apply here.”
Caitlin’s head shakes before she even realizes she’s doing it. Small. Helpless. Reflexive.
Rules don’t just stop applying. That’s not how it works. Rules are gravity. Rules are bones. Rules are the reason things don’t fall apart.
Her mouth opens, but what comes out is a thin, shaking breath.
“They do,” she whispers. “They always do.”
Sue doesn’t interrupt. That somehow makes the words keep coming.
“I don’t get to decide when they stop,” Caitlin continues, voice hollow, like it’s echoing down a long tunnel. “I don’t get to decide anything. I just— I follow them. That’s how you don’t make it worse.”
“Tell me where you learned that,” Sue says instead.
Not who. Not yet. Where.
Caitlin blinks at her, unfocused. The room feels far away again, edges smearing. Sue’s face goes a little soft around the eyes, a little careful, like she knows Caitlin is slipping.
“I don’t know,” Caitlin says automatically. That’s safer. “I just… know.”
“That’s okay,” Sue says. “Then let’s stay with what you know.”
Caitlin’s hands are still clamped to her arms. She barely feels them now. Her body feels wrong and heavy and light at the same time, like she’s only half in it.
“What do you know happens after someone messes up?”
Sue asks.
Caitlin swallows. Her mouth tastes like blood and metal, like she’s bitten the inside of her cheek raw without noticing.
“You get corrected,” she says. The words come out flat, rehearsed. “You get consequences. Otherwise you don’t learn.”
Sue’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“And what kind of consequences do you think you’re supposed to get right now?” she asks.
Caitlin hesitates. Her gaze drops to the floor again, to the stains, to the place where the rules feel easier.
“I don’t know,” she says. Then, smaller: “Something.”
Sue exhales slowly through her nose.
Not a sigh. Not frustration. Something controlled. Contained. Like she’s holding back a storm with her bare hands.
“Something,” she repeats, quietly.
Caitlin nods, eyes fixed on the paper again. On the red on her socks.
The word feels safer there. Vague. Undefined. If she doesn’t name it, maybe it can’t take shape. Maybe it can’t grow teeth.
Sue leans forward just a little.
“Caitlin,” she says, voice steady but low, like she’s careful not to spook a wild animal. “I need you to hear me very clearly right now.”
“People don’t end up this afraid because they messed up.”
Caitlin’s breath stutters.
“They end up this afraid because someone taught them they should be.”
Caitlin’s whole body goes rigid.
“No,” she says immediately. “No, I’m just… I’m dramatic. I’m tired. It wasn’t- it wasn’t that bad.”
Her voice speeds up, desperate now, stacking excuses like sandbags against a flood.
“He didn’t hurt me. Not really. It’s not what you think.”
Sue doesn’t let her rush past it.
“Caitlin,” she says, firmer now, still calm. “You don’t get this scared over something that wasn’t that bad.”
Caitlin’s eyes burn. Tears pool, blurring everything.
“I do,” she insists, voice cracking. “I just… I overreact. I always do. You can ask anyone. I’m emotional. I make things bigger than they are.”
She lets out a brittle laugh that shatters halfway through.
“It’s not a big deal. People go through way worse.”
Sue hears it immediately.
Not what Caitlin says, but what she’s carefully stepping around.
“Caitlin,” Sue says quietly, “listen to what you’re doing.”
Caitlin flinches.
“I’m just explaining.”
“You’re convincing,” Sue replies. Her voice is calm, but there’s weight behind it now. “You’re building a case. And it sounds like the one someone else has already made for you.”
Caitlin’s mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Her throat works uselessly, like the words get stuck halfway up and die there.
Sue doesn’t push.
She just watches, present, unwavering.
Caitlin’s eyes fill again. Tears spill over, heavier now, slower. The kind that come when you’re too tired to hold them back.
“I don’t want it to be bad.”
Caitlin whispers finally.
“I know.”
Sue murmurs..
“If it’s bad,” Caitlin continues, shaking, “then I can’t just… just move on. I can’t just be normal again. And I need to be normal. I need to be fine.”
She presses a hand to her chest again, like it aches.
“If I’m not fine, then something happened to me,” she says. “And if something happened to me, then-”
She can’t finish.
Sue finishes it for her, gently.
“Then it matters.”
Caitlin nods, tears dripping off her chin.
“And if it matters,” Sue continues, “then what?”
Caitlin swallows hard.
“Then I didn’t deserve it,” she whispers.
The room goes very quiet.
“You didn’t,” Sue says immediately. No hesitation. No softness around the truth. “You didn’t deserve it.”
Caitlin shakes her head, frantic again.
“You don’t know that,” she says. “You don’t know what I did. I shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve just-”
“Stop,” Sue says gently but firmly.
Caitlin’s breath catches.
Sue leans closer, close enough now that Caitlin can feel her presence like a wall—solid, immovable.
“There is no version of this,” Sue says, voice low and absolute, “where you deserve to be scared into silence.”
Caitlin’s face crumples.
“I just want it to be over,” she whispers . “I just want to stop feeling like this. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to make it real. I don’t want-”
“I know,” Sue says softly. “I know.
Sue reaches out slowly, giving Caitlin time, and places her hand over Caitlin’s clenched fists, stopping the way her nails are digging into her skin.
“Right now,” Sue says, “you don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready to.”
Caitlin sniffles, nodding weakly.
“But,” Sue continues, unwavering, “you don’t get to decide that it wasn’t serious just because acknowledging it hurts.”
Caitlin cries.
Her body trembles under it.
And for the first time, she lets someone see the whole thing.
.. . … . . . ..
It’s nothing.
It’s genuinely nothing.
Kelsey is talking about something, practice times, maybe, or a drill that still doesn’t feel right, or a joke Caitlin half-misses because she’s smiling more than listening, thumbing through her phone.
They’re walking side by side, shoulders almost brushing, the sound of their sandals scuffing against the floor in a comfortable rhythm.
Caitlin nods in the right places. Hums when it feels appropriate. She’s present enough. Normal enough.
Aliyah already went upstairs. So did Sabrina.
But Kelsey wants to ask the concierge something and she has time to burn so why not.
The front desk comes into view, cluttered the way it always is. Flyers stacked in crooked piles. Clipboards. Pens on strings. A corkboard layered with old announcements, half of them curling at the edges.
Caitlin’s eyes flick there without intention.
She isn’t looking for anything.
That’s the thing.
There are a lot of pamphlets.
Nutrition guidelines. Academic resources. Mental health check-ins. Community outreach events. Bright colors. Friendly fonts. Nothing threatening.
But one of them is blue and white.
Neatly fanned. Centered. Clean.
The words are bigger than the rest.
Sexual Assault Resources
You Are Not Alone
Caitlin’s breath stops.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
It just… doesn’t come back in.
Kelsey keeps talking.
Still something about film review. Something about a meeting running long. Caitlin hears the cadence of her voice, the rise and fall, but the words slide off her like water.
The pamphlet feels loud.
It’s not the only one on the desk. Not even close. But it’s the only one Caitlin can see, the blue burning into her vision like a bruise she didn’t know was there until someone touched it.
You are not alone.
The words tilt.
If they apply to her-
If they’re meant for her-
Her stomach drops.
No.
No, that’s not right.
This is a mistake. This is her overthinking. This is just paper and ink and a bad coincidence.
Her chest tightens.
Wrenches tighter.
Her body reacts before her mind catches up. A sharp, electric jolt runs through her, straight down her spine, and suddenly she’s not standing at the front desk anymore.
She’s not anywhere.
She’s fine.
She has always been fine.
But her hands start to shake anyway.
She becomes acutely aware of the weight of her feet on the floor. The way her socks rub against her shoes. The way her lungs refuse to expand properly, like they’ve forgotten how.
The edges of the world blur.
Kelsey says her name.
Once.
Then again.
“Hey. Caitlin?”