The world outside Pinehurst was loud and bright, like someone turned the volume and the contrast all the way up and forgot to tell me.
I hadn't realized how much I'd depended on the muted hum of the facility, the controlled chaos where every sound had a place. Now, every car horn, every shouted argument, every clink of dishes in the café stabbed at my nerves.
I tried to keep my head down, avoiding people. But old habits die hard, the way I flinched at sudden noises, how my hands trembled when someone got too close, how sleep kept slipping away.
**
The first thing I noticed back home was the smell.
Not rot or mold or something dramatic. Just... stale. Like dust and fabric softener that gave up. Like no one had opened the windows in weeks because they hadn't. I hadn't. It was my apartment, but it felt like walking into a stranger's forgotten storage closet.
The air was thick with quiet. Too quiet, not the kind I craved when the ER got loud and frantic. This was dead quiet. The kind that settles into your bones like cold.
I stood in the entryway for a long time, keys still in hand, bag still on my shoulder. The door clicked shut behind me and I flinched like someone had slammed it. Like the silence itself had teeth.
There were dishes in the sink from before. Mold is starting to bloom on what used to be soup. My plants had given up trying to live. One of them had straight up fallen off the windowsill and shattered, bone-dry soil scattered like ash across the tile.
Welcome home, Mara.
I dumped my bag on the couch and stood there with my hands on my hips like I was about to start cleaning. Like I might turn into the kind of person who gave a damn.
Instead, I went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed water on my face until it stopped feeling like mine.
**
The first night back, I didn't sleep, not really. My body was tired, but my brain kept checking for alarms, heartbeats, IV lines that didn't exist. I kept reaching for things that weren't there syringes, thermometers, cats with blocked bladders.
By morning, I gave up. I brewed coffee that I didn't drink. Burned toast, that I ate anyway.
I had a note from the hospital social worker, some outpatient therapist I was supposed to call. I didn't. The paper stayed on the fridge, crooked under a cactus-shaped magnet that felt like a cruel joke.
**
I lasted four days.
Four days of pacing my apartment. Watching vet videos on mute like a junkie licking the edges of old habits. I didn't open the curtains. Didn't answer texts. Not that many came through.
On day five, I went back to the clinic.The job called. The clinic wanted me back. I wasn't sure I was ready. But pretending to be okay felt easier than explaining I wasn't.
It was too soon. I knew it was too soon.
But rent doesn't wait for mental health. And guilt doesn't wait either.
**
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and betrayal. My badge still worked. That pissed me off more than it should've.
I ran into Sam, the receptionist who'd always been too chipper for this kind of place.
"Hey, stranger," she said, handing me a coffee like she hadn't noticed the dark circles under my eyes. "We missed you."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes.
"Thanks. I missed it too."
And that was a lie.
Inside, things had shifted just slightly. A different scent of candles in the break room, something citrusy and obnoxious. No one looked surprised to see me.
Except Lucy.
She was in the treatment area, wrapping a paw. Her head snapped up like I'd shouted.
"Mara?"
I nodded. "Hey."
"I... Didn't know you were coming back yet."
"Neither did I."
There was a long pause.
She set down the gauze. "We've been slammed. Dr. Klein's been a nightmare. Not that she ever wasn't. You want to jump in?"
I hesitated. That part of me…the part that still thought this place was home, itched to say yes.
But my stomach said no, my hands said no and my pulse in my throat screamed no.
"I'll just watch for a bit. If that's okay."
Lucy gave a tight nod. "Sure. Just... take it easy."
**
Watching was worse.
Standing on the edge of the chaos, invisible, hearing beeping and crying and all the old ghosts that had carved themselves into my ribs. My fingers twitched with the urge to help, but the rest of me stayed frozen.
A golden doodle came in with a torn dewclaw. The sound it made, I swear it rattled my teeth. I turned away, gripped the counter, breathed like someone trying not to vomit.
Lucy's voice came from behind me. "You okay?"
I nodded too fast.
"You don't have to be here, you know. Not yet."
I turned. "Then when? When I'm fixed? That's not gonna happen."
She flinched.
I regretted it instantly.
"Sorry," I muttered.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "You don't have to prove anything, Mara. We're not... expecting some miracle comeback."
I looked at her. Really looked. She was tired, too. Pale under her makeup. Voice tight with tension.
"You're burning out," I said before I could stop myself.
Her eyes darkened. "Don't turn this around."
"I'm not. I just... see it. That's all."
She didn't respond. Just turned and walked away.
I stayed another hour. Didn't touch anything. Just watched.
Then I left without saying goodbye.
**
Back home, I peeled off my scrubs like they'd grown teeth. Sat on the floor, leaning against the couch, the same position I'd been in when I broke.
Only this time, I didn't reach for the pills.
I just sat there.
And breathed.
And told myself that maybe failing wasn't the same as being a failure.
Not yet, anyway.
**
The next day, I called the therapist on the fridge note.
Her name was Jo. She had a voice like a warm blanket and didn't flinch when I said, "I think I came back too soon."
She said, "That's okay. You came back. That's something."
I didn't know if I believed her.
But I made an appointment anyway.
And that was something too.