The Exception.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Moving Foward.

Then, slowly, she whispered:
"You survived."
She said it again. Louder this time.
"You survived, Fatima."

Her eyes darted to the spot. The spot where her blood once pooled on the concrete. The ghost of it still there in her mind, as vivid as the day it happened.

And then, like an unwanted guest, Jonathan's voice filled her head again.
'Either you come home, or I won't hesitate to let this bitch sing.'

Her throat tightened, her vision blurring as the sound of the gunshot ricocheted inside her skull.
BANG.
She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

The parking garage was colder than Fatima remembered. The concrete smelled faintly of oil and rain, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights echoed like a ghost in the distance. Her heels clicked against the ground as she stepped out of the car, every sound amplified in the emptiness. She paused, staring at the cement—the exact spot where she bled out, where life almost left her body.

Her breath hitched.
The memories hit harder.
The sound of the gunshot, the sharp burning in her chest, the taste of copper in her mouth, the panic clawing up her throat.

Fatima's knees buckled, and she clutched her arms around herself, shaking. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to escape. Tears blurred her vision as her body folded forward until she was on her knees, right there in the very place she swore she'd never come back to.

"Why... why did this happen to me?" Her whisper cracked apart, barely air. "What did I do to deserve this?"

Her sobs echoed against the walls, raw and unrestrained. She hadn't cried like this in years—not since middle school, not since the nights she wanted to end it all, not since she realized nobody was coming to save her. She had been strong for so long. Too strong. And now the armor was shattering piece by piece on this cold concrete floor.

Footsteps echoed behind her, steady and calm. She didn't have to look up to know. Dr. Jackson was there.

"I knew you'd need me," Dr. Jackson's voice was firm yet gentle. Her heels clicked closer, and then the therapist crouched down beside her, eye-level. "I'm right here, Fatima."

Fatima shook her head violently, tears streaming. "I can't do this. I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Dr. Jackson gripped her shoulders, grounding her. "You've already done the hardest part. You showed up."

Fatima's chest rose and fell in broken gasps.

"Say it with me," Dr. Jackson said softly but with an edge of command. "Say, 'I survived and I'm alive.'"

Fatima's lips trembled. "I—I survived and I'm alive." It came out like a breath, barely a whisper.

"Louder," Dr. Jackson said, eyes locked on hers. "Say it so this place knows it didn't win."

Fatima swallowed hard, pulled from the pit of her soul, and shouted through tears:
"I survived and I'm alive!"

Her voice bounced off the walls, fierce and broken at the same time.

Dr. Jackson's eyes softened, but her tone stayed steady. "Again."

"I survived and I'm alive!" Fatima screamed louder, her voice cracking mid-way, her fists pounding the concrete.

"Good," Dr. Jackson said, her grip firm on Fatima's shoulders. "Now say this: 'I didn't deserve what happened to me, but I'm strong.'"

Fatima's tears spilled harder. Her throat felt raw. "I... didn't deserve what happened to me..." her voice quivered, "...but I'm strong."