vulnerable things and their hushed songs

remember about the moths and stories?

they all seem to carry your name

- Eleonore

With so many things going on recently, I forgot to tell you about the newest hospital newsletter.

I lift my eyebrows questioningly as he holds some forms, flipping through them, scanning a bunch of names and numbers as if searching for some patterns that will bring him the answers he's looking for. I'm not a fan of surprises, but I have to admit I'm relieved to have other topics to talk about than just our lovely, denial-filled grey area. Charlie puts down the paperwork on a desk behind him and rubs his face slowly, sighing as if he was constructed of too many things to worry about - each trouble a tangled wire hiding under his already tensed form. He looks more tired than when I saw him a few hours ago. No, I didn't go straight to him. One, I knew he was busy, and two, cowards like to extend their pre-execution time.

Denial is so much sweeter, after all.

Mmm, okay, I'll bite. What's the newest gossip in Sin City?

His face doesn't turn amused, and I become slightly alert.

Remember Dr. Sorentine? The psychiatrist who was hanging around Morgan? The one who saw you collapse some time ago?

I nod slowly. It wasn't something I could forget entirely, even if I preferred it never happened.

Well, he has been intensely observing you for a while now. You and the people you spent time with. It seems your volunteer activities got him making a lot of notes.

My eyes narrow, body tensing up as I shift uncomfortably in the chair. I felt that Mister Elegant might be problematic. Something about his presence and the way his eyes would wander to me, sliding against my body like he was trying to solve an equation with too many unknowns as if he was studying a lab rat under a million bright, flashy lights.

Perhaps he is writing a play. One can be a wannabe in many areas, and not just in psychiatry.

Charlie sends me a heavy stare, and I can see how this situation worries him. But for me, it was just another bump in the road. As much as I was unsure of my near future, I could tell the road would be rocky all the way through. It was more than expected - just one more thorn in my personal, poison-ivy garden.

Sorry, please continue.

He asked me many questions about you, casually prodding me here and there until I became suspicious.

You can guess where his curiosity came from.

He nods unhurriedly, his facial expression clouding even more.

Yes, the moment you miraculously put yourself back together after looking like a bad case of tropical disease or five seconds from collapsing into a coma.

I shrug my shoulders, still not too bothered.

I guess miracles don't sit well with overachieving shrinks.

Not with this one, anyway. He even warned me about you, letting me know that you show signs of being mentally unstable at times and can potentially be dangerous to your surroundings.

I lift my eyebrows at that. Dangerous to my surroundings? I think in disbelief.

The accurate statement here would be that the surroundings could potentially be dangerous to my health and life.

My thoughts were similar.

I sigh with agitation that I can't seem to hide as it bursts through my pores like tiny explosions.

You would think with that kind of diagnosis, I am a step away from a killing spree. Have you got an axe somewhere or a set of pristine chef knives? Rusted knives would do too, more cinematic if you ask me. I would just love to show the shrink a little show so he's not too disappointed.

I say sweetly and feel long-forgotten fires stir in me. A prelude to anger.

Charlie shakes his head but can't hold back a little smile.

I doubt that would actually help your case.

After a while, I nod, my anger deflating as the mundane reality cools down my murderous enthusiasm.

No, probably not. But one can dream. So, what did you do?

I lean in slightly on the chair.

Well, I calmly told him you fall into a certain area on the autism spectrum, and because of that, you can be extremely sensory sensitive when put under a lot of stress or anxiety.

Slowly, I blink at him, confused, not entirely aware of what that term entitles. Obviously, I have heard about autism and that it had many levels on the scale, ranging from very mild versions that let the people who struggle with it live pretty regular, day-to-day lives, as well as the ones where the autistic traits can take over completely, making it very difficult to function and adjust to the world around them. Charlie stares at my blank expression and gives me a small smile.

I will explain it when it comes to kids. Children who have sensory issues can show an aversion to things that overstimulate their senses, such things as bright lights, loud environments, or sometimes intense smells. Kids with that kind of sensitivity may also seek additional stimulation in settings that don't spark their senses enough.

My head tilts to the side.

So, some rather live in peaceful, dark caves. While others are constantly looking for fireworks and the blazing sunshine?

He makes a face and nods his head unwillingly.

In a very simplified version, sure.

I lift my hands in surrender and then shrug.

Hey, you're the one with medical knowledge. I base mine on what I catch with what Doctor Google provides or what I casually hear on 2 a.m. TV while dealing with insomnia wonderland. I mean, at those special moments when I'm not in the middle of yet another tender and delicate episode of "sensory sensitiveness".

There is a noticeable dry tone to my words, and he gazes at me for a moment as if searching for something.

The description fits nicely, though. Wouldn't you say?

My back sags a bit, shoulders curling to the inside as I give in to the truth with some annoyance.

Surprisingly well, actually.

I take out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and type in the phrases he used, mouthing them as I do so. "Sensory sensitive children". I scroll for a long while, getting lost in it and losing track of time, glaring at the text as the information becomes strangely familiar. I feel both annoyed by it and intrigued. "Oversensitive children might squint or seem uncomfortable in sunlight or glare; they might cover their ears to block out loud noises." "Unstable balance... overreact to pain". I take a breath and click on a different link with an article written by some psychiatrist, my eyes following the text very closely and cautiously as if waiting for a bomb to go off.

"For someone who is hypersensitive, it can take a lot of effort to spend all day under LED or fluorescent lights, navigate a crowded space, or process conversations in rooms with background noise. This can be incredibly physically and emotionally draining and can leave the person feeling too exhausted to do other important tasks."

My eyes lower to a different section that also catches my attention.

"Sensory overload happens when an intense sensory stimulation overwhelms your ability to cope. This can be triggered by a single event, like an unexpected loud noise, or it can build up over time due to the effort it takes to cope with sensory sensitivities in daily life. Sensory overload can feel like intense anxiety, a need to escape the situation."

After a while, I put my phone on his desk and sink deeper into the chair, feeling deflated.

Did you resurface yet?

He asks with some humor but still gently, and I sigh.

Yes, in a way. It's rather strange to be defined so well and at the same time know it couldn't be more far off. It makes me feel like a definition in an encyclopedia that doesn't apply anywhere.

What does apply to you, then?

Damned, tortured, and breathtaking.

He shakes his head but can't help himself, the corners of his lips lifting slightly.

You are something, that's for sure.

There is a certain softness in his tone, and it causes me to inhale deeper for many reasons that I rather not think about right now.

Charlie?

Yes?

He focuses more on my face, sensing a change in my tone.

Are we okay?

There is a moment of silence when he gazes at me.

I mean, I think that we are. But still, I don't want to assume.

My eyes linger on him as I wait for the answer, and he gives me a little smile that's both nervous and calm somehow.

We're fine, Nora.

There is something in the way that he says my name that makes me worry a bit, something in my chest moving around as if a bunch of small pebbles uncomfortably bouncing around my ribs. It's as if he was suddenly further away from me. The thought makes me uneasy, and I sense a wave of panic washing over me. And panic tends to loosen my tongue. Or if I had to be completely honest, not so much the panic but the feeling of potentially losing a person that meant so much to me. It somehow shifts my insecurities to the side, shoving them into some deep corner of my being.

I want to talk about it.

I say in a rushed, urgent way and watch his eyes widen, and then he blinks as if the sun had just blinded him.

You want to talk about it?

He puts pressure on every word, especially the first one, not seeming to believe what he has just heard.

Yes.

Okay. Then talk.

He crosses his arms and sits on the side of the desk. I wasn't sure if he was challenging me, or just mentally preparing himself for what he was going to hear.

It's nothing bad. I promise.

I mumble under my breath, shrinking under the spotlight, that I have put on myself - both my words and body language feeling clumsy as I start.

I remember everything that happened between us, but the details are kind of hazy.

A long inhale as I stare at my fingers, constantly clenching them and spreading them wide - as if just by doing that, everything would become easier, just the right words appearing magically and spilling out of my clenched jaw.

Almost like an out-of-body experience.

I shake my head and look up at him, but make sure not to focus on his facial expression so I don't get distracted. Another little sigh escapes my lips as I stare back at my hands, the last thing I've said seeming lame and laughable.

Like being in a dream and watching the scene from the side. You know?

I shift my head and look at him from the corner of my eye. He nods slowly, not wanting to interrupt whatever I needed to get out of my system.

I'm not going to pretend that it didn't happen, nor do I regret it - just so you know. I mean... maybe it shouldn't, especially with everything going on, but it did.

I struggle more and more to find the right words. I had so much to communicate, so

many things wanting to spill out of me. And yet, I couldn't name them correctly, instead feeling like I was just repeating the same, empty cliche phrases I used before with him. It was hard to make sense of all of it, all the feelings and emotions that were going on in my chest, under the skin, and in the pit of my stomach - like an endless whirlpool of thoughts and sensations, hitting me repeatedly on a loop. Maybe there just weren't the right words for it all? I look up again and this time focus on his eyes for longer.

Charlie, I'm not the right person to get involved with.

I see him freeze for a moment, but he doesn't say anything in return. Not yet.

I'm messy and chaotic, and my life is currently very uncertain. I come with baggage. And on top of that, I'm a health hazard not only to myself but to others around me. Hey, maybe the psychiatrist wannabe is right after all. Why would anyone want someone like that?

I don't really want any response from him - all that I'm trying to do is communicate with him. I'm trying my hardest not to do what I was best at, trying not to shut him out of my life. I lean on my right hand and stare numbly at the floor for a very long time. But then suddenly, I snap out of it as his warm fingers slip into mine. I look up and gaze into his warm blue eyes as he kneels in front of me. My heart starts to hammer unexpectedly against my chest as a similar situation hits me, a memory opening up before my eyes like a flower. Like a flower. The words echo in my mind as an image of a silver ring with a painted-on daisy flashes before me, exploding into a million other memories. It takes all of my willpower not to rip my hand away from his and start to scream. He must feel how my body tenses and looks at me with growing worry.

What's wrong? Is it the pain?

I swallow, relieved that he thought it was my demons talking and not the sound of my heart cracking open in old places that I thought had healed better - invisible scars opening up and flaring with pulsating, crimson fires. But then again, these scars were also my demons; they just had different hues of colors if she put them against the light. I nod slowly but don't say anything. I didn't like lying to him; it felt wrong somehow, and always twisted my stomach into little knots. He nods back and wraps his fingers around my wrist. I smile as the faint warmth moves through my veins - it feels nice and comforting but does not stop the ache in my chest. I swallow again and try to smile at him reassuringly. It takes a lot of effort, but I pull through. Gently, I slip my wrist from his hold and cross my arms. He gazes at me questioningly, probably sensing there is something more to my mood than I let on.

Now please get up, I'm not paying for any knee injury. I can't afford it - starving artist and all.

His eyes narrow slowly as if he's scanning everything I'm hiding, but then just nods, giving me a little smile.

Alright, I apologize to the introvert for such open displays of humanity.

My smile widens a bit.

Ah, he understands me. I have taught you well.

He nods and gives a new smile that still doesn't reach his eyes. Panic swirls in my veins again, waking up to life like tiny pieces of shredded glass in my bloodstream. I tilt my head, concentrating intensely and listening in the same way I did with Morgan, but nothing comes - just the general feeling that he's upset and slightly out of it. I can't hear him like with some. Maybe I can only touch sorrow and trauma. Personal trauma, not the ones he takes care of with others. I grab his hand just as he's ready to leave the room - and what I know very well - excuse himself with work. He's a busy man, but I know when someone's trying to escape my presence. I have been in this place too many times not to read the signs correctly.

Charlie?

He looks down at me as if he had only just noticed me.

I'm not pulling away. I'm not running. And I need... no, I WANT you around for a very, very long time.

I can tell that I stirred some things in him, but I also know I have to open up more. It's not enough.

And not just because you're a remedy to my pain. Or because you calm down the restless demons and all the PTSD crap that, let's face it, might never leave me.

My finger squeezes around his tighter.

And not because you're a friend and ally that I would shield from any danger that may come with my own body in a heartbeat.

My other hand wraps around his lower arm, securing him in place, never wanting him to leave. My voice becomes softer as I let myself be vulnerable with him even though it terrifies me.

You make me happy, Charlie Evans. You saved me the day we met, and you continue to be by my side despite all the chaos that happens around me and under all my damaged layers.

I take a deep breath as I repeat what he already heard before.

Charlie, I'm not the right person to get involved with... but it doesn't mean I don't want to be the person for YOU.

I notice his expression change, color spreading on his face. I feel as if I had just thrown him an invisible anchor, bringing him back to the present. Back to us.

I can't promise you that one day, I will be glued back together enough to resemble something that's even in the slightest way whole.

My thumb moves around in circles against his lower arm, stroking the skin there as if I was touching the most precious thing in the world.

But when that day comes...

My heart races and my eyes begin to sting - wanting to both finish what I want to say and at the same time, run away as if all hell was chasing me. But I stay, for him.

But when it comes, I hope I will feel the same things I felt a few nights ago. When I felt everything you were willing to give me and all the things I never knew you could want from me. That anybody could want from me.

I watch as he swallows and takes a step back, hitting the desk behind him and accidentally falling on it with a low thud, seeming to forget it was even there - an empty cup dancing around on the wooden surface with protest, a few pens and pencils tumbling down to the floor. He holds the edges of the desk with his palms like he's trying to find some balance.

Well, I... I did not expect that.

I inhale and shift my arms, stuffing my hands under my armpits as if protecting

myself. He notices and smiles - this time, the smile is warmer and reaches the corners of his eyes.

But in a good way.

He adds quickly and crosses his arms over his chest. We must look comically right now, both with crossed arms - him on the desk, looking like a catalog, fair-haired Harward student. And me on the chair resembling a semi-tamed anxiety with a dark bundle mess on her head.

I'm happy I can still surprise you.

I stand up, stretching out some sore muscles that have been in one place for too long, and straighten my back wanting to gain back some control. Just like Morgan a few hours ago. I think and ponder how similar we are in the end. I look up at Charlie and lift my chin slightly.

If you and you're nurse discounts need me, I will be occupying the cafeteria consuming hot over-sugared tea and air while searching for lost dignity.

He sighs and gets up.

Come on, I might have a few minutes to spare; let me just first check with Susan if I'm allowed such a luxury. I need to feed you before you show any more tender romance novel qualities. I don't want you to spontaneously combust when it reaches your dark, sarcastic soul. I have a hospital and patients to think about.

He shoves me forward, and I smile, secretly hoping I really won't combust from all this openness - who knew what happened after such occurrences to the likes of me.

___________________________________________

Link to the book:

https://www.theprose.com/book/1755/with-all-my-senses

Previous chapter:

https://www.theprose.com/post/793973/trapped-moths-are-pained-stories-in-need-of-telling