Bailey Glass POV:
"No, you're not," I said, my voice cold and clear. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the finality of my decision.
Inside, Dr. Evans, a kind-faced woman with a gentle smile, looked up from her notes. "Bailey! Good to see you. Who was that rather agitated gentleman outside?"
I managed a weak smile. "Just… my ex-boyfriend."
Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eyes. She and I had built a rapport over the past few years, a relationship that extended beyond typical doctor-patient boundaries. She knew my history, my anxieties, my struggles. She'd been my silent confidante, my medical anchor.
"Ex-boyfriend?" she repeated, her smile widening genuinely. "Well, that's excellent news! Congratulations, dear."
"Thank you," I said, a small, genuine warmth spreading through me. Her approval, her understanding, meant the world.
"So," she said, tapping her pen on her notepad. "How are we feeling today? Any more of those… intrusive thoughts? The racing heart? The constant worry?"
I shook my head. "No. Not really. I mean, yes, there's still some residual sadness, of course. But the panic attacks… they've stopped. The constant knot in my stomach… it's gone."
She nodded, a soft smile on her face. "That's wonderful, Bailey. Truly wonderful."
I remembered the early days of my therapy, the raw honesty I' d poured out to her. How August' s casual dismissals of my feelings had festered into deep-seated self-doubt. The countless times he'd called me "dramatic" or "overly sensitive" when I tried to express my fears about his flirtations and his growing distance. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Bailey," he'd say, his tone condescending. "Why are you always so… neurotic?" Those words, repeated over and over, had carved grooves of insecurity into my soul. They had eroded my sense of self-worth.
"You have generalized anxiety disorder, Bailey, with significant depressive episodes," she'd told me gently, after months of tests and conversations. "And your anxiety is particularly triggered in intimate relationships."
She'd delved into my past, uncovering the roots of my insecurity. My father, gone too soon. My mother, beautiful and flighty, chasing after one man after another, leaving me with relatives for months, sometimes years, at a time. The desperate need to be "good" and "useful" to earn her love. The ultimate betrayal when she finally remarried and started a new family, leaving me behind for good.
Then, my first serious boyfriend in college. He cheated on me, then blamed me for it. "You were too needy, Bailey," he'd said, a twisted echo of August's words. "You drove me away." That had cemented my fear: that I was inherently unlovable, that my need for connection was a flaw, something to be ashamed of.
Dr. Evans had helped me see the pattern. "Bailey, your partners have been… less than ideal. They've exploited your tendency to seek validation. What August is doing, his emotional neglect, his gaslighting… it's not normal. It' s emotionally abusive. And it's exacerbating your existing trauma."
She' d given me two choices: remove myself from the source of anxiety, or learn to cope with it. I chose the former. I opened my flower shop, pouring my energy into something beautiful and tangible, something that was mine. And then, I chose to leave August.
"I feel… good, Dr. Evans," I said, a genuine smile now gracing my lips. "Better than I have in years. The shop is thriving. I'm connecting with people. And I'm not constantly waiting for a shoe to drop."
She flipped through her notes, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Given your progress, Bailey, and your current emotional state, I think it's safe to say… we can start weaning you off the medication. You've done the work, my dear."
Relief washed over me, warm and sweet. It wasn't just the end of a relationship. It was the end of an illness. The end of a chapter.
"That's wonderful news, Dr. Evans," I said, my voice thick with emotion.
She stood, extending her hand. "Go live your life, Bailey. You deserve all the happiness in the world."
