You are as real as anyone, and your doubts make you more real, not less.”
The moment I got back home, I could feel Mom’s nerves jangling about my visit with Dr. Singh, even though she was trying to be calm and normal.
“How was it?” she asked, not looking back at me while grading tests on the couch. “Good, I guess,” I said.
“I want to apologize again for the way I spoke to Davis yesterday,” she said. “You have every right to be upset with me.”
“I’m not,” I said. “But I want you to be cautious, Aza. I can tell your anxiety is increasing— from your face to your fingertip.”
I balled up my hand and said, “It’s not him.”
“What is it then?”
“There’s no reason,” I said, and turned on the TV, but she took the remote and muted it.
“You seemed locked inside of your mind, and I can’t know what’s going on in there, and it scares me.”
I pressed my thumbnail against my fingertip through the Band-Aid,
thinking it would scare her a lot more if she could see what was going on in there.
“I’m fine. Really.” “But you’re not.”
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