~Two days later~

“Good morning, Miss Angel. How are you today?” Christine’s voice was calm and gentle, as always. Her tone never changed—soft, soothing, but somehow mechanical. Sometimes I wondered if she was really human, or if therapists were just trained to sound like perfectly programmed machines.

“I’m… doing fine. It’s been a rough week, but nothing out of the ordinary,” I replied, staring up at the spotless white ceiling. My body sank deeper into the lounge chair, its cushion cradling me like a lullaby. The tension I’d carried all week slowly began to melt away.

The chair rocked back and forth, so subtly it felt almost still. But like my thoughts, it wasn’t still at all. There were shifts, fluctuations. Gaps. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Tell me about your week. Any episodes?” Christine asked.

“No. Very few of those lately. It’s almost like they’re completely gone.” I paused. “My week was... normal, I guess. I diagnosed a few patients, performed brain surgery to remove a tumor, and... I went on a date.”

“Oh? That’s new.” Her voice perked up just enough to betray her curiosity. For a moment, the calm therapist facade cracked, revealing a woman itching for details.

“It was just some guy I met Tuesday morning on my way to get coffee,” I said, the memory playing in my mind like a soft reel. “We were both rushing somewhere, and we bumped into each other outside the café. My papers went flying, and he helped me pick them up. I was going to walk away, but then… he asked for my number.”

Typical love story bullshit. The kind that always ends in tears. The universe hated me. The feeling was mutual.

“How did the date go?” Christine asked, too hopeful for my comfort.

I sighed. “I kind of… liked him. He was nice. The way he smiled. The way he spoke. The softness in his eyes—it was all so... entrancing. But then he asked about my past, and I freaked out. Walked out on him. Haven’t seen him since.”

Christine let out a soft sigh, like she was the one who’d ruined the date.

“Angel, listen. We’ve gone over this time and time again. Look at how far you’ve come. You’ve overcome the drugs, the depression...”

The chair continued to rock, and in my mind, a flicker of a memory resurfaced—me tying off my arm, needle in hand. Another image: me curled up in a dark room, sobbing, surrounded by pills and half-empty bottles.

“You’ve come so far that you’re even allowed to perform surgeries again. You’re not the woman you used to be. You’re free now. Free of your past. It’s time to spread your wings and start living again. It’s okay to share your story. Sometimes, that’s how we let go—by letting someone else carry the weight with us.”

The chair rocked again. Richard’s face flashed in my mind. That smile of his—twisted, manic, carved straight from my nightmares. No matter how many therapy sessions I endured, I could never seem to banish that face.

“Look,” Christine said gently. “He noticed you’ve had a troubled past, and he still asked. That means he cares. Don’t let this chance slip away.”

Her words cut through the room like a sharp whistle—piercing, too loud, too real.

And in that moment... I lost it.

—

“An opportunity? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped. “Do you have any idea what I went through in the hands of a man I thought loved me when we got married?”

“I do, Ange—” Christine began.

“No, you don’t!” I shot up, grabbing her collar with trembling hands. “Because you weren’t fucking there! You weren’t the one getting punched over and over because the food was too salty. You weren’t the one drenched in blood after every horrible excuse for sex. You weren’t the one with a broken collarbone and a black eye, lying to his family just to stay in a marriage you knew would eventually fucking kill you!”

I hissed at her, eyes wide with fury, as she stared back at me—frozen, horrified.

—

“I ruined our date,” I murmured, eyes snapping open. “And I’m not going on another one. That one was just a mistake… something that’ll never happen again.”

Thankfully, all of that had been in my head. If I ever unleashed that part of me on Christine, she’d need a therapist.

“I see,” Christine said, sighing softly. “I guess we’re not there yet. Just remember—not everyone means you harm. Yes, there are bad men out there… but there are good ones too. You can’t lump them all together because of one man’s mistakes. It’s time to let yourself breathe, Angel. To let go of what happened four years ago.”

She leaned forward a bit, her voice gentle. “I’m here for you whenever you want to talk, okay?”

“That’s because I pay you. But sure… whatever,” I muttered, sitting up and reaching for my bag.

Christine and I both rose. She extended her hand, and I shook it.

“You should keep taking your medications,” she said with a bright, almost motherly smile. “I’m proud of your progress—but you’ve still got a ways to go.”

I exhaled and nodded.

She opened her mouth again. “And I think it’s about time to reach out to your fami—”

“Don’t push it,” I cut in quickly, my tone cold and dismissive. I turned on my heel and made for the exit.

***

My house wasn’t far from Christine’s clinic. In Forest Hills, everything felt just close enough to reach but far enough to stay separate. A taxi took twelve minutes. The bus took twenty.

The cab stopped between two trees in front of my home. I paid the fare and stepped out, then stood there for a moment, just... staring.

It was a modest bungalow—brown exterior, pale yellow interior. The roof was stacked with thick, dark grey clay tiles, and a narrow chimney jutted out from the top. The walls were solid concrete brick, and the small front yard was covered in neatly trimmed grass. A low wooden fence framed the property, and a dented metal mailbox stood just outside the gate like an old friend too tired to leave.

“How did my life come to this?” I muttered, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Things might’ve been different—better—if I hadn’t disobeyed my family to marry that bastard.

Maybe Richard was the universe’s way of showing me that no one gave a damn about me. That I was nothing but a forgotten rag doll to the world.

No one came to see me at the hospital that night. Not my sister. Not my brothers. Not even my own mother.

The one person who might’ve cared enough to call… died long before the wedding.

My father.

I walked through the fence and into the yard, then approached the door. Inside, I tossed my bag onto the couch and headed toward the kitchen, kicking off my shoes at the threshold.

“Now I just have to stuff my face with ice cream until I pass out,” I muttered to myself—I needed to pass out.

I stopped cold at the entrance of the kitchen.

The chaos from last night’s breakdown still lingered like a fresh crime scene. Everything was exactly as I had left it.

But something about it felt off.

Last night wasn’t like the others. I remembered the spiral, the crash—but this time, it had felt like I wasn’t even me. Like my mind had been hijacked by something... darker. Thoughts I’d never dared to entertain crawled out of hiding and took over.

Evil thoughts.

Even now, they sent chills down my spine.

The kitchen shelves had been torn apart like fabric. Cutlery, broken dishes, shattered bottles, pots and pans scattered across the floor. Cooking oil stained the tiles, and the walls—god, the walls—were streaked with red lipstick.

One word, again and again.

“Ragdoll.”

It had haunted me ever since I said “I do.”

I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. I couldn’t afford another outburst. I crouched to begin picking up the broken pieces of glass and ceramic.

“What caused this?” I whispered, trying to remember what had triggered me. My memories of the night were blurry—like a film with missing reels.

As I lifted a large shard of ceramic, I noticed a piece of newspaper beneath it, soaked in oil. There was a black-and-white photo on it.

I squinted. My breath caught.

I knew that face.

The trigger for last night’s breakdown wasn’t a memory or a dream. It was news.

Richard had been released from prison.

The night of the fire came rushing back like a tidal wave. I could see myself, panicked and crying, knocking over the candles in a desperate attempt to escape him. I remembered the smoke. The flames. I remembered Richard and Jennifer walking away—leaving me to burn.

Four years ago today, Richard had been thrown in prison for domestic abuse. The court ruled in my favor, awarding me a large portion of his wealth.

And now he was free.

“Richard is back...” I whispered, staring down at the paper with trembling hands.

That same haunting smile flashed through my mind like lightning in a storm.

“He’s coming for me.”

I’d lied to my therapist about the episodes—those moments when I lashed out and destroyed everything around me. The drugs had stopped working a while ago, and my refusal to switch to something stronger—to stop the hallucinations, blackouts, and the growing gaps in my memory—was finally coming back to smack me in the face.

My old excuse was that the pills were just empty promises. Now, I had a new excuse. A bigger one. A problem I could no longer ignore.

The shards of glass and ceramic dropped from my hand as my face twisted in horror. Images from my past surged through my mind, blow after blow, each one fanning the flames of hatred in my chest. Hatred that had filled the hollow space where love and life once bloomed. I gritted my teeth and pressed my palms against the sides of my head.

Clamping my eyes shut, I let out a guttural scream—one loud enough to alert the neighbors.

“No… no. This can’t be happening,” I whimpered as tears spilled down my cheeks. This feeling of fear, of helplessness... it never got easier. The thought of that evil man showing up at my door again terrified me. But what terrified me even more was the fact that I was completely and utterly alone in the world.

Staggering out of the kitchen, I whimpered, my makeup streaking down my face in ruin.

Then I noticed it.

A red light blinking ominously on the connection box of my home phone, mounted on the right wall just beside the kitchen entrance.

My mind went blank. It was the first time I’d seen that light blink since I installed the damn thing.

“Blue light for the phone company. Red light for voicemail,” I muttered shakily, staring at it. “A voicemail? That’s new.”

I stepped toward it slowly, my hand trembling like I’d just stepped out of an ice bath.

“Could he have already found me?” I whispered, pausing just before grabbing the receiver.

With a breath, I picked it up and brought it to my ear. Silence. For a few seconds, all I heard was a low hum. No voice. No message. Just a reminder that someone had called—and I wasn’t there to answer.

I pressed the button beneath the red light.

“Hey, Angel. It’s me, Harold,” his voice echoed into my ear, and my eyes widened. “Umm… I wanted to apologize for our date a few nights ago. I didn’t think you’d pick up a call from me, so I figured I’d try your home line. I honestly hope this is it—there were a lot of people named Angel in Forest Hills,” he chuckled.

“Imagine this is the wrong person,” he laughed again. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could make it up to you with a simple coffee date. Nothing too fancy, nothing too grand. Just you and me at that café we met. I promise, no weird questions this time. Call or text me if you’re interested.”

The message ended.

I pulled the phone from my ear slowly.

“Is this guy some kind of stalker?” I whispered, brow furrowing. I hung the receiver back on the wall and sank to the floor, pressing my back against the cold wall behind me.

Oddly... I felt calmer.

Only moments ago, I was unraveling. Now, all I could think about was getting that ice cream again.

“An opportunity, huh?” I murmured, remembering what Dr. Christine had said during our last session. Maybe she was right. Maybe letting someone in wasn’t the worst idea.

But the thing about starting a new relationship in my current state was all the what-ifs.

What if I told him about my past and he looked at me with disgust?

What if he saw me as damaged?

No one wants a broken toy.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and buried my face in my own cold embrace.

“No one wants a worn-out ragdoll.”

All the anger, all the hatred I’d bottled up—it wasn’t aimed at others. Not anymore.

It was toward myself.

For not being strong enough.

For being so helpless in the face of danger.

For falling for the most obvious scam the world had to offer: love.

For not learning my lesson.

---

Hours later, I found myself sitting at the café.

The sun’s rays streamed through the tall glass walls, warm and golden. Sunday afternoons in Forest Hills were always peaceful—filled with laughter, joy, and the soft hum of passing conversations. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and I sat in the perfect spot to take it all in.

I wore something simple: a checkered shirt, jeans, and light makeup. Nothing too attention-grabbing. I mean, who shows up to a coffee date in a ball gown?

It had been fifteen whole minutes since I arrived.

I was starting to worry.

Had I hoped too much?

Did the universe really hate me that much?

My fingers tapped anxiously on the table—dry, rhythmic sounds that echoed in my skull. I could feel the gazes of other customers on me, hear the murmurs and soft chatter. It felt like they were all whispering about me, even if they weren’t.

I wanted to melt.

Vanish.

What was I thinking coming here?

“This was a mistake. I should leave.”

Just then, a waitress approached.

“Madam, I’m sorry to bother you,” she said kindly. “But you’ve been sitting here a while, and you haven’t ordered anything. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Well, umm...” I hesitated. What was I supposed to say? I’d texted Harold a few times and gotten no reply. The café sounds suddenly grew louder—glasses clinking, people chewing, laughter—it all crashed in my ears.

I should go.

I was about to rise when I heard a voice behind me.

“I’ll have a mango smoothie. And she’ll have… whatever she wants.”

I exhaled, relief flooding me.

“I’ll have that as well, thank you,” I said quickly.

“Okay then, I’ll be right back with your orders,” the waitress said with a smile before walking away.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Harold said, coming around the table and taking the seat across from me. “I’m late. I know. And I deeply apologize for my tardiness.”

That voice of his... I finally understood why it calmed me earlier.

“Whatever,” I murmured, brushing a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I’m just glad you didn’t ditch me.”

“There was an issue at the company—something I had to deal with before coming here,” Harold explained.

“What happened?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, nothing to worry about. Just a small celebration for the return of someone very important to the business—and to New York as a whole,” he said, strangely vague.

Then he added, “Listen, Angel. About our last date—”

“No, no, please,” I interrupted. “I should be the one apologizing. You asked a harmless question, and I walked out without a word. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d ever call me again… let alone go digging for my home number,” I admitted, my voice growing fragile.

“Well, obviously it wasn’t a harmless question,” Harold said, and I slowly looked up to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid of sharing your past because you think people will reject you. You think they’ll call you crazy or push you away. But… that’s not true. At least not for me.”

“We don’t know that yet, do we?” I replied softly, my eyes glancing sideways before returning to his.

The waitress returned, placing our smoothies and napkins on the table.

“Enjoy,” she said, then left.

“Try me,” Harold said, flashing a warm smile.

“Let’s see how today goes first,” I replied, smiling gently in return.

Beneath the deep rumble of the turning Ferris wheel, amidst the ringing bells, revving engines, and the mechanical whirs and clicks that saturated the air, came the footsteps of a few hundred people. Their voices rose in excited chatter, punctuated by gleeful screams, as though tonight might be their last.

It had been a long time since I’d walked among a crowd. I disliked it more than anything. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable. And yet, here I was—on another one of those cliché romance-story dates. And to my surprise... I was enjoying it.

I really hadn’t learned my lesson.

The lights were breathtaking. Flickering neon signs and rainbow-colored bulbs lit up the wooden stalls, the rides, the games—painting the world in a surreal glow. It did something to me. It reminded me that even amidst all the pain in my life, there was still a little joy left. Happy memories, long buried beneath layers of self-doubt, guilt, and hatred, stirred quietly within me.

“Over here,” Harold’s voice cut through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present.

I turned to my left and saw him standing in front of a game stall.

Earlier that day, we’d had coffee, taken a long walk around the neighborhood, greeted a few neighbors, and even done a little gardening together. Now, somehow, we had ended up at an amusement park—the last place I would’ve come to on my own. And the strangest part? I was having fun.

I smiled softly and walked toward him. A small crowd had gathered around the stall. A few men had already tried their luck and failed miserably. Each round cost a dollar, and judging by the number of disappointed dates, some of these guys had already spent small fortunes trying to win stuffed animals. I really couldn’t let poor Harold waste his money like that.

“What’s going on here?” I asked, playing my part in this storybook scene. I had to act as normal as possible.

“Oh, it’s a game,” Harold said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “For a dollar, I get a shot at winning you a prize. All I have to do is toss the little white ball into the green bottle.”

“Oh.”

There were several bottles lined up on the stall—each a different color and arranged on uneven rows. The green bottle, I noticed immediately, sat at a deliberately awkward angle. It was placed just far enough and surrounded tightly by others to make the shot near impossible. From a glance, it was clear this was a scam.

“Harold, you don’t have to win me anything. We can just enjoy the rides and be on our way,” I said, gently taking his hand and trying to pull him away.

“No, no, no, wait. There’s this really cute stuffed bear I think you’d love.”

He turned me back toward the stall, slid his arm around my shoulder, and leaned in until his cheek brushed mine. “Look over there,” he said, pointing toward the top shelf.

The moment his hand rested on my shoulder, the world shifted. His voice faded into silence. All the sounds around us—the music, the machines, the crowd—went mute. It was like a glass dome had suddenly dropped over me. This was the first time he’d touched me today. The first time we’d ever been this close. I could still see the teddy bear. I could see the finger pointing to it.

But none of that mattered.

“I should be pushing him away. I should be panicking... breaking bottles... screaming.”

The thoughts crashed through my head like waves.

“What the fuck is happening to me?”

“So... do you like it?” Harold’s voice returned, gentle and unsure.

“I... um,” I stuttered.

“You don’t like it? That’s fine. Totally fine,” he said quickly, pulling away. “We’ll just do the rides and head out.”

“Umm...” I let out an airy chuckle, trying to shake off the strange feeling. “I like the bear. I do. And you clearly want to play the game. So how about this—why don’t we both play and see who gets the ball into the bottle first?”

His expression lit up.

He handed a dollar to the vendor and received a tray with five small white balls. I did the same.

“I’ll go first,” I declared, placing a hand dramatically on my chest. “Ladies always go first.”

“Yeah, well, don’t start crying when I win,” he teased.

“I won’t cry. You’ll cry.”

I picked up one of the tiny balls—barely larger than a grape—and aimed for the distant green bottle. I tossed it carefully. The ball bounced off an orange bottle and landed in a yellow one. The crowd around us winced as if I’d just spit on sacred ground.

“Oh, you weren’t even close,” Harold said with a smirk.

I shot him a deadpan look, lips tight.

He picked up his ball and gave it a lazy toss. It sailed between two white bottles and fell short, clattering onto the shelf.

I nearly burst into laughter. I had to press my fist to my mouth to contain the giggle, snorting twice before I could compose myself. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I know. Don’t look at me,” he said, covering his face in mock shame.

I tossed another ball. It sailed right over all the bottles and landed on the shelf behind them, where the prizes were stacked.

“Reaching for the stars, are we, Angel?” Harold mocked.

He picked up his second ball. Everyone watched in silence as it glided toward the green bottle tucked in the far corner. My eyes narrowed. The ball arched downward, closing in on the bottle’s lip.

In the final second—just as it was about to drop in—something strange happened.

The bottle shifted.

It was subtle, nearly imperceptible, but I saw it. I was sure I saw it. The ball bounced off the lip and landed on the shelf with a thud.

“Ohhh,” the crowd groaned in unison.

“Hey, wait—that’s cheating!” I snapped, my voice sharp as I turned to the vendor.

“Cheating? What in seven hells are you on about?” the vendor barked, feigning confusion.

“Angel, what’s going on?” Harold asked. He looked at me like he’d just seen a ghost.

“You didn’t see it? The bottle moved just as the ball was about to go in. I’m sure he used some kind of hidden contraption or something,” I explained.

Harold turned to the vendor, who quickly denied it. “I assure you, I have no idea what she’s talking about. The game isn’t rigged.”

Harold sighed and turned back to me. “Listen, Angel, it’s just a game. You don’t have to get worked up over it, please.”

“Worked up?” My breaths quickened. “You don’t believe me?”

“No. I mean—yes. I do believe you.” He took both of my hands in his and said calmly, “I believe every word you say. But this is just a stupid game. It’s okay.”

His voice steadied my breathing. He put his arm around my shoulders again and gently guided me away from the shop.

We hadn’t gone far before I turned around. My eyes locked with the vendor’s. He smirked—eerily. There was something about the way he stared at me, his eyes filled with malice. That glare... It looked so familiar. Richard’s face flashed in my mind, layered over his, and I quickly looked away.

The rest of the night was nothing short of exciting. We went on rides, ate cotton candy, and played less-rigged games, winning silly prizes and laughing like kids. It was the best night I’d had since the fire. Every moment I spent with Harold felt like a balm over the bruises in my mind.

I could feel the darkness inside me slowly begin to shrink.

“I hope you had as much fun as I did today,” Harold said as we walked along the street, bordered by steel railings that separated us from the vast lake below.

He had his hands tucked in his coat pockets, and I mirrored him. The wind was cold against our faces, but the moonlight made the night feel... magical. The glow reflected on the still surface of the lake, casting silver streaks across the water.

“I had a wonderful time. It’s a shame it has to end,” I replied.

“Tonight will end. But tomorrow’s a new day. We can do this any time you want. You just have to be willing,” Harold said softly, walking a few steps ahead.

I stared into his eyes, taking in his quiet sincerity. Then, after a long pause, I turned to face the lake.

“I was married once,” I said, stepping closer to the railing and curling my fingers around the cold metal bar. “To a man I thought was my prince charming.”

Harold silently joined me, his gaze fixed on the moon hanging over the water.

“He was everything to me. I loved him so much I gave up my entire life for him. I went against my family’s wishes. I even helped him fight them, all just to be with him. And for what? So he could turn around and hit me in the face over the most ridiculous things.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harold whispered, his voice nearly swept away by the wind.

“Our wedding was beautiful. The best day of my life. We had cake, we laughed, played games. But the moment we got to the house, he changed.”

I kept talking, ignoring Harold’s sympathy. What use were apologies now?

“It turned out he was only using me to get close to my family. When he failed, I became nothing more than his punching bag. He would have his way with me and then leave me bleeding… from everywhere.”

Harold inhaled sharply. “What about his family? Yours?”

“His people were heartless. They didn’t care what he did to me. I had to lie, say I fell, or cut myself on accident—just to keep from being tossed out onto the street like garbage.”

I paused, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “And I’d already lost my own family. I tried calling them so many times, but no one picked up. The one time my mother answered, she told me I’d made my choice and had to live with the consequences. That’s when I knew—if I stayed in that mansion, in his bed, I was going to die there.”

My eyes burned. Tears blurred the lake’s reflection. “He was arrested after I managed to divorce him. But the memories never left. They still haunt the darkest corners of my mind. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living it all over again.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the wetness on my cheeks. I thought I was strong enough to talk about it now—but I wasn’t. Not at all.

Harold wrapped his arms around me and gently pressed my head to his chest. Warmth radiated from him, seeping into the cold places in my soul. I’d never been this close to his heart. I could hear it—steady, strong, and real. And in that moment, I knew: he cared. He truly cared.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” he said, voice tender.

“If only I’d listened to my family. If only I’d been smarter…” I whispered, sobbing.

“No, Angel. It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently. “Your only mistake was giving your heart to the wrong person. And that’s okay. It’s all over now. He’s gone. You’re here. You’re a strong, beautiful woman with a heart of gold—who also happens to be a biological mechanic.”

He chuckled lightly at the last part.

I laughed, too—quietly—remembering the stupid joke I made on our first date. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Your past can’t hurt you as long as you’re living in the present and holding onto the moments that bring you joy,” Harold continued. “You’ve spent so long being a wall—strong, guarded. But it’s okay to crumble sometimes. It’s okay to fall. Because I’ll always be here to catch you... Angel.”

He sounded like my therapist—except his words weren’t rehearsed or clinical. They were warm, raw, full of life. Just like his embrace.

Maybe… just maybe, the universe didn’t hate me after all.