4.9.25 - afternoon

cam's finding it difficult to smile today, it’s too much effort and hurts her cheeks. during the summers, things are slower at skidmore college. the hours are shorter, the workload is lighter. the kids trickle in for appointments like the drip, drip, drip, of a broken faucet. so she could get away with being distracted while barely mustering anything resembling interest at the weekly staff meeting.

“cami?”

cam looks up from her empty notepad to meet the gazes of her colleagues, who all wear matching, expectant expressions. Like she’s stopped a joke halfway through and they were all waiting for the punchline.

“hm?” She asks with one of those smiles.

“you ok?”

“oh,” cam’s fingers tap her pen, debating on how to answer. She knows they wouldn’t be upset if she outright admitted with a self-deprecating joke she zoned out. No one in her department was a drill sergeant. But after this morning’s events, Cam needs to feel in control of something.

so she merely nods, “i’m fine, sounds great!” while silently praying the topic wasn’t something along the lines of “so and so had a death in the family" or thomas is going through another break-up, wants to bring back jorts for a new, improved, thomas and he needed opinions.

the meeting ends and cam retreats to her office where she flops down on the small loveseat situated on one wall. her phone alerts her with a new message (which is promptly ignored after reading it) and the words floor her. then another comes in, but this time from wyatt, which happens to coincide with a flower delivery (also from him) that makes cam burst into tears at the abrupt, almost violent shift in emotions it causes. but at least they’re happy tears. fifteen minutes later, she schedules an appointment with her therapist for the following day.

mira chakraborty is a diminutive woman. she’s only 5’3” and favors flowing clothing in rich jewel tones. in her mid-50s, her dark, silver-streaked hair always sits in a perfect braid, trailing down the center of her back.

the first time they met, cam’s dad had barely been dead a month and she hadn’t left the house in two weeks. she was now on a first name basis with an uber eats driver and saw him so often she was thisclose to asking what they were and what his astrological sign was (he gave off major virgo energy). her daily outfit consisted of whatever was clean and often, cam wound up looking like a toddler who was finally allowed to pick out their own clothing.

the first time they met, the younger woman was also hungover. tucked under a ny yankees ballcap, her long dark hair was still damp from a shower, but she swore the scent of bourbon still oozed from her pores. there were bruises beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. the chipped black polish on her nails was a far cry from the beautiful manicure which usually adorned them – princess cam had one scheduled every three weeks. mira walked the fragile line of giving her tough love, while also refusing to handle her lie a porcelain doll. She was soft spoken, but she didn’t take any of cam’s bullshit.

“you look upset,” Mira observes when cam sits down in front of her on tuesday afternoon. the last time she saw her patient, they talked about the attack. cam's face looks a lot better. at their first session, it was a mottled mess of black and blue bruising. it hurt mira to look at her, knowing at the first sign of pity, cam woudld leave.

“i am upset.”

“so...”