Termination.

I told her it's like going through a breakup, or grieving a death. I thought for sure she would look at me funny or think I'm delusional... too attached. But she said "that makes sense" and I sighed in relief.

It's not so much that I miss him, or the way I felt him patiently wait as silence enveloped me in safety, in acceptance. It's not his mannerisms I miss or the idiosyncrasies making him personable.

It's missing the space he provided. The way I finally had enough courage to bring a blanket or a stuffed animal. The way I draped my favorite hoodie over my legs. The way I leaned against the wall and sometimes rocked side to side. The way I was allowed to pace freely, or have my knees shake if I was anxious. The way this never embarrassed me. The way I never felt I had to sit up, prim and proper. The way I could just [be], whatever that would mean.

I miss the way he was concerned, and isn't it funny? An internet stranger pointed out a cold, hard truth. How maybe I wanted him to be more worried about me than I wanted him to help me.

But I can't forget: the 3 hour session, the phone check-ins I let go to voicemail, the way he walked me down the stairs and waited outside with me, the welfare check, the text messages, my "this is so scary" and his "everything will be ok, they'll get you where you need to go".

It's not the events I regret telling him, the specifics I could barely admit to myself. I know he will never dishonor or gossip about what I went through.

It's the raw feelings I regret sharing, the frequent ones brought up over and over again. The ones clawing at my skin. The ones paralyzing me. The vulnerability of being honest, of letting my voice break, of letting him hold the hurt when so often, I would keep it all locked inside. I let him see the shame I've let become my identity.

I know I will be able to trust again, but really, it's a matter of when.