↳ ❝I'M NOT SURE IF I EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND ANYMORE.❞
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It takes approximately 21 days for a habit to form. At least, that's what the article Lovette had read had claimed. The habit she'd picked up wasn't something she'd consciously chosen. It wasn't the kind of habit that self-help books would commend, like going for a daily jog or hitting the gym. Instead, hers was the incessant cracking of her knuckles. She found herself doing it most when anxiety gripped her, and somehow, over time, it had become ingrained.
So, here she was, sitting across from Dr. Florence, the therapist's gaze scrutinizing her every move as she involuntarily cracked her knuckles.
"It's been a year," Lovette began, her voice punctuated by the familiar sound of her joints popping. "And it hasn't gotten any easier. It's supposed to get easier, isn't it?"
Dr. Florence replied gently, "Lovette, there is no fixed timeline for grief."
She sighed, sinking back into the chair's cushioning. "Isn't it said that time heals all wounds?"
A moment of contemplative silence hung in the air.
"That's not entirely true," Dr. Florence explained, her tone empathetic. "The passage of time may seem to ease the pain, but true healing requires active effort."
She paused again, selecting her words thoughtfully. "Triggers can surface unexpectedly, and if you don't have effective coping mechanisms in place, you're at risk of being severely overwhelmed."
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Her hands hadn't stopped shaking, no matter how hard she fought against it. She tried to steady them, first by sitting on her trembling fingers, but the relentless anxiety persisted. So, she settled for the familiar ritual of cracking her knuckles, the sharp sounds a dissonant accompaniment to her racing thoughts. The tremors had made even the simplest tasks a challenge – from grasping the steering wheel to inserting her key into the front door's stubborn lock. Lovette couldn't fathom how she'd managed the drive to Chris's house, but she was driven by an urgent need to escape the clutches of her own anxiety.
She stood on the dimly lit porch outside Chris's house. The evening air was thick with tension, and the distant hum of city life seemed to mirror the anger coursing through her. The streetlights cast long shadows, stretching like accusing fingers across the pavement.
The doorbell chime nearly slipped past her notice amidst the chaos of her shaking limbs. The only discernible sound was the relentless thud of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. She tried to shut her eyes, to steady her breath, but nothing could silence the tempest raging inside her.
