TBD

Introduction

Alright, let's talk about this.
I can't tell you how many times I've said those words in the last month. As a plea, or simply just because I couldn't think of another way to stall him. Nearly every time it would earn me a laugh, bitter and taunting as it was, but at least it allowed me to escape his grasp for a few moments.
Don't get me wrong, I could've run away any time. I could have used all those moments he was pressed up against me in my bedroom at 4 AM or wheneverthefuck he would sneak in to scream for help or kick him swiftly in the balls and run for my life. But it's our little game, I think. Cat and mouse. Bird and cat. He paws at my life like it's something to play with, and I let him because it's his. Everything I am. It's his. My life, my fear, my skin-on-fire, never ending desperate fuck-me-in-the-shadows need for him. He made sure of that a month ago.

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Chapter One
About two months ago.

It's really hard to find a therapist nowadays. Everyone is too expensive or too old or too unavailable or (and I'm not unaware of how this one sounds) too hot. I mean seriously, how am I supposed to focus when they can clearly see me eye-fucking them on their stupid, boring desks every time? If you're hot and you know all of my trauma and don't make me feel like shit about it, then I just have to assume we're fucking, I thought that was standard.
Anyways.
I have about three weeks to find one--a therapist--because my sister is getting married and if I don't have someone to fix me before then, it might turn out to be a red wedding. I still can't believe I'm going. I still can't believe she invited me.
My designated scrolling finger hovered over the Tinder app for a few moments while I contemplated my shrink issue, suddenly wishing there was an app like that but for finding mental health providers. After a quick and curious web search, I came up blank. Makes sense, you should never blur the lines between dating and psych evals. Unless they're wearing tight pants and keeps maintaining eye contact and switching their crossed legs every few minutes. Hmm.
I decide to go onto Tinder, thinking that a good last resort option would be having a date to the wedding at the very least. Someone who's not emotionally invested, but hot enough that I won't feel weird about sleeping with them as a transaction when they watch me writhe and seethe and internally burn myself alive for a few hours.
Someone like Sean. The lean man in my phone who has about 3 pictures of him that he's clearly not used to taking. Who clearly just wants a hookup. And who clearly won't have the desire to speak to me after August 18th. He's tall, he's dark, and he's way too handsome for his own good. So much so that I suspect he may have traded in a few hours hitting a punching bag instead of some books. He's perfect.
And he's mine.
The all-too familiar buzz in my hand as we match sparks a glimmer of