I insist on working today's shift, even when Noah offers—again—to cover for me. Or give me the day off.
"You sure?" he asks softly, like he already knows the answer. I nod, avoiding his eyes as I tie the strings of my apron. I don't want to talk about it. Not now. Not again.
"I've already taken one day off this week," I say instead. "I don't wanna bother anyone. Plus, tomorrow is my day off. I can't be greedy and selfish."
But that's only part of it. The truth is, I don't trust myself alone today. Not after I came into dr. Ronald's room. Not after sitting in a parked car, letting my mom's isolation sink into my bones. I've been down that road before. I know what spiraling feels like—how it starts as a flicker and turns into a wildfire. I won't let myself sink that far again. Not if I can help it.
Working helps. The Personas helps. The rhythm, the motion, the tiny rituals. The warmth of steam, the chatter of regulars, the comfort of habit. It keeps me tethered.
