Ash Ito

Ash sat hunched in her chair, arms crossed tight over her chest, her eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. The circle of chairs felt more like a cage, each soft murmur and shifting body pressing in on her. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. She counted the seconds in her head, hoping if she stayed quiet long enough, the session would pass her by like a bad dream. She flinched when the old woman beside her gently touched her hand. Ash glanced up, meeting kind, weathered eyes. Mrs. Callahan. Always there, always patient. The woman’s presence was like a warm blanket — irritating in the heat but impossible to hate. "You’ve been awfully quiet today, dear," Mrs. Callahan said softly, her voice a comforting rasp. "Sometimes it helps to let a little out. Even a whisper can lighten the load." Ash’s throat tightened. She dropped her gaze again, fingers curling into her hoodie sleeves. The weight of expectation hung heavy. She could feel the other eyes on her — the therapist, the group — waiting. Judging. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe that was just her. Her heart pounded against her ribs, memories clawing at the edges of her mind. Mark’s face. The feeling of being small, powerless, suffocating. She swallowed hard, biting her lip until the taste of copper filled her mouth. No. Not here. Not now. "Pass," she whispered, voice barely audible. Mrs. Callahan squeezed her hand, no pressure, just warmth. "Alright, dear. Another time." Ash sat in silence, the weight of the room pressing down on her, and wished she could disappear.