#it'll help

The vicious, spiteful, hateful way that Max outed her still stings; she hasn't forgotten, and despite wanting to, she can't quite bring herself to say that she's forgiven.

Regardless.

For the future? For her future? That sort of planning isn't something she really knows how to do.

For most of her life, Victoria has found herself locked in set courses. There were expectations she had to meet, and opportunities that she wasn't permitted to take. It's all been very orderly, of course; all of her options were obvious, and everyone was deeply conscientious about pointing out the lines that marked everything else as off-limits. Things were clearly and inarguably defined, and there was no ambiguity for her to struggle with.

The borders of her life have shifted to the point of being unrecognizable as hers.

A few basic things are still the same. She still has a daily routine, and she clings to the reassuring sense of security that she gets from having the day blocked out. It helps things feel stable. Stability is good; stability lets her focus on concrete things, and not distressingly vague ones like taking initiative or making decisions. If she stays within the framework, she'll be okay, even if her efforts are all futile in the end. You can't block out your life by the hour, and Victoria knows it.

But she's not quite sure she wants to try to as hard as she always has.

Nebulous, intimidating now keeps sketching out its shape in patches; the angles she can make out aren't sharp enough to threaten her. There's no dead zone outside her neat little boxes of time. Not anymore.

It's a little jarring to acknowledge that there are other ways for her to exist, and more so to admit that she hasn't needed to plan her potential escape. No ambush lies set for her along the hallway to Wyda's office, or through the doorway, or in all the time she lingers in Wyda's company. She's not going to set off a tripwire on the way to Lee's if Max drags her over for the evening. There are no minefields laid beneath the nights she spends with the tiny circle of people she thinks of as ­safe.

Her life doesn't have to be riddled with hidden pitfalls. She has relationships. She has friends. She has opportunities to do the things that she loves. Wyda bought a fucking house for them to live together in. None of that is terrifying.

There's an entire life outside of the framework, if she can manage to venture past its borders. Maybe there's a future there, too, beyond the weeklong span she struggles to see past. She might be able to take hold of it, if she's lucky.

At the moment, the best she can do is clumsily grab at it. The possibility is too alien for her to shore up her defenses properly; she can't remember ever needing to protect herself from the chance at a happy ending. Contingency plans don't cover that.