#mental thoughts

You hadn't meant for him to see. Not like that.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. The two of you were curled up on the couch in your shared apartment after another long race weekend. You'd changed into one of his hoodies - oversized and comforting, sleeved trailing past your fingertips. But when you shifted to reach for your mug on the coffee table, the fabric slid just enough to reveal your wrist.

Oscar saw.

You knew the moment he did.

He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just paused, his gaze catching on the faded lines etched into your skin. Then, carefully - gently - he reached out and took your hand in his. His thumb brushed over the marks, not asking questions, not making assumptions. Just there.

You pulled your sleeve back down with shaking fingers. "I didn't mean for you to see."

"I know," he said softly. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

You shook your head. "You didn't"

And then you didn't say anything else. Not that night.

You tried to pretend everything was fine. That the look in his eyes hadn't cracked something inside you. Not pity - never pity. Just that unbearable tenderness, the kind you weren't used to. The kind that scared you.

For days, you floated through your routine. Work. Oscar's texts. Smiling when you needed to. Laughing at his jokes.

But at night, the silence felt heavier. The ache crept back in - sharp, familiar, dangerous.

It had been months. Nearly a full year without a relapse.

And then one night, alone in the apartment while Oscar was away for a media event in London, the weight of everything got too loud again.

You couldn't even explain why.

You didn't plan it. It just happened.

And the second it was over, you felt the same rush of shame and guilt and grief for the process you thought you'd made. You cleaned up, wiped your tears, and curled under the blanket on the couch like nothing had happened.

But Oscar noticed the second he walked through the front door.

He always noticed you.

He walked through the door, suitcase in one hand, tired but smiling. "Hey baby."

You tried to smile. It didn't reach your eyes.

Oscar's expression softened. He put the bag down, crossed the room, and cupped your cheek with one hand. "Hey," he said again, but quieter. "You okay?"

You nodded automatically. He didn't believe you.

He always gave you time to speak. He didn't pressure you.

But you couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I slipped," you whispered.

His brows furrowed, confused for a second - until his gaze dropped to your sleeve. "What do you mean baby?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "I relapsed. Just once. A few nights ago."

He didn't say anything right away. He didn't gasp or look horrified. He just stepped closer, pulling you into his arms, cradling the back of your head against his chest like he was holding something precious.

"I'm sorry," you whispered again, and your voice cracked. "I know I should've told you. I just... I didn't want to disappoint you."

Oscar pressed a kiss to your head. "You didn't disappoint me."

"But I messed up..."

"You didn't mess up. You're human. You've been fighting so hard for so fucking long. One moment doesn't erase all of that."

You broke then, sobbing into his shirt, and he held you like he never wanted to let go. No pressure. No shame. Just warmth and quiet strength.

That night, you lay in bed with his hand wrapped around yours, and for the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe again.

"I feel like I've failed," you admitted in the dark.

Oscar shook his head gently beside you. "You haven't. Recovery isn't a straight line. You're still here. That matters."

You turned your face toward him, your eyes rimmed red, throat sore. "What if it happens again?"

"Then we talk about it. We find help if you need it. You don't go through it alone, okay?"

You hesitated. "You're not scared of all this? Of me?"

He looked at you like you'd just asked him if the sun scared him. "No. I'm scared for you sometimes, sure. Because I love you. But that doesn't mean I can't handle it. I want to be here for you. Even on the hard days."

You buried your face in his chest again, overwhelmed. "You’re too good to me."

He laughed softly. "Not possible."

The next week, you started therapy again. You’d gone years ago, stopped when you thought you were "better." But Oscar gently offered to help you find someone this time. He never pushed. Just supported. Showed up.

When your appointment ended, he was outside waiting in the car with a coffee and your favourite snack.

"You didn't have to,” you said, eyes wide.

"I wanted to," he said, smiling at you like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Small victories deserve big love."

Healing wasn't linear. Some days were light. Others were hard. But Oscar never stopped showing up.

He held your hand when you cried for no reason. He made you laugh when your chest felt tight. He reminded you to take your meds when you forgot. And on your anniversary, he wrote you a card that simply said:

I see every part of you. The bright. The broken. The brave. And I love you more every day. – O

You cried when you read it.

He kissed your cheeks dry.

And in the stillness that followed, you knew that this wasn’t just love.

This was healing.

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As GLaDOS said, "I'm being serious. I think there's something really wrong with me."

For a solid month or two now, I've had this curiosity of "what is it like to be female" and, not once, have I been able to resolve this desire. I've talked to people who are female, I've talked to a trans person, I've created art of myself as a girl and even gave her a completely different personality, and I STILL FEEL LIKE THIS!! It's getting to the point of distracting me from doing anything and making me mentally drained. THIS SERIOUSLY NEEDS TO STOP!!