âI know that, Iââ Fuck. She expected it to be difficult, becauseâbecause rehab isnât supposed to be easy, because addiction is rough and because if getting sober was easy, rehab wouldnât exist. But she wasnât prepared for the guilt. The physical symptoms have finally begun to subside, except thereâs this lingering queasiness, something unsettled in the pit of her stomach. It has worsened now, somehow, in just the past ten minutes as she has been tryingâtrying and failingâto apologize to Alana. Thatâs a step in her recovery, an important part of this process, and⌠and Fiona canât do it without feeling sick and screwing it up. ââI appreciate it, I do, but you⌠Iâm not good for you. Iâm not⌠good for anyone, but especially not for you.â A breath in, breath out, but it doesnât help the nausea. âI shouldnât haveâtold you to come so soon, itâs⌠Iâm not⌠I wasnât ready. Iâm not ready.â
She patiently quirks an eyebrow and listens. It's ironic. 'I'm not good for you'. And yet, for weeks now Alana has been vaguely dodging in and out of sanity. For weeks now Alana has been static, changing, static. Losing time, coming back. She had a consistency and now she feels the entropy of its disappearance. Her stability is smoke. That little semi-hop to cross her legs, and her head tilts in that sympathetic way-- "Then I'll come back," she says softly, leans forward, "For the record, you're doing just fine. Or were. The only person tripping all over your words is you. And I think it's entirely possible it's me, to some extent. But Fiona, do me a serious favor-- don't tell me what is and is not good for me. This isn't hostile or accusatory. I just don't need anyone making that decision for me except me."