Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 191

He nods once, then leans back. “Alright,” he says mildly, “You planning to actually say something, or should I start practicing telepathy?”

I glare at the floor, my heel bouncing against it in restless rhythm. This is the same agitation that used to drive me to the bottle, to smoke, to anything that’d burn me from the inside out. But this time, it’s worse. Because it’s coming from the one person who actually knows how to quiet me down.

“He’s trying to make me go to therapy,” I say finally, voice low but edged. “Forcing me to quit my job. Acting like he's the only one who gets to decide what’s good for me.” My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. “He’s not being fucking fair, Crest. I’m not some goddamn mental project for him to—”

I stop myself, jaw tight. Eyes on the floor. There’s a heavy silence, and all I can hear is my pulse hammering in my ears. I really want to hit something. Anything. After a beat, Adam’s measured voice cuts through the tension. “Did something happen to push him there?” he asks. “Because I doubt he just woke up one morning and decided to start rewriting the rules of your life.”

I drag a hand down my face, nails scraping my jaw, trying to keep my voice steady but failing miserably. “I’ve been opening up to him,” I say. “Telling him things I don’t tell anyone. Because I thought maybe that’s how we move forward. Leave all that shit behind us. But no, he’s convinced I need professional help.” I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “And for what? I’m perfectly fine.”

Adam just watches me with that unnervingly calm stare that makes me want to fill the silence with noise. Then he carefully asks, “These things about yourself, were they concerning?”

I frown. “Define concerning.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “If the roles were reversed, if Xander told you the same things you told him. What would you think? Would you suggest he do the same thing?”

The question lands heavier than it should. I try to imagine it, Xander in my place. Xander with blood on his hands, with nights he can’t sleep through, with ghosts that whisper his name. But the image doesn’t hold. I can’t even see it, because that’s not his life. His world is clean, ordered and untouched. The kind of perfect that makes my life look like a crime scene....blood on the walls, fingerprints on every mistake, and no clean way to wash any of it off. Which is why he gets to hand out ultimatums like they’re nothing, gets to tell me what’s right, what’s broken, what way to steer my life!

I’m the storm he keeps trying to cage and probably the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

When I don’t answer, Adam’s eyes narrow a little, sharp and assessing. Then he asks, “Xander still leaving? You mentioned it last time we had lunch.”

I swallow, “Yeah. Friday.” I’d rather not be reminded. He studies me for a moment, that quiet, calculating look that makes me feel like I’m being read line by line.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, slow and thoughtful. “Nothing,” he says at first. Then after a beat, he adds, “It’s just... maybe that’s part of it. Maybe that’s what’s really getting to you. The worry.”

“No,” I say too quickly, too hard. “I’m angry because he’s trying to make me do shit I don’t want to. I don’t wanna fucking talk to someone—”

“You’re talking to me though, ” he cuts in.

I scoff and give him a look. “That’s different.”

“How?” he asks, tilting his head. “Because we’re friends?”

“No,” I snap, heat crawling up my neck. “Because I don’t have to dig into shit I don’t even wanna think about.”

My pulse’s a hammer in my ears. I can feel the anger climbing, feeding off itself, my skin too tight for how much of it there is inside me.

“Okay. Then tell me this, ” His voice drops low, careful. “You think there’s any chance, any at all, that he’s right? That maybe you do need to talk to someone?”

“I don’t,” I bite out. The word’s a snarl. I push up from the chair, pacing toward the door. “You’re just like him,” I throw over my shoulder. “Both of you think you’ve got me all figured out.”

I take two steps before his voice cuts through, calm but edged with something curious, like he’s just discovered something he hadn’t noticed before.

“Wow. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you.”

I spin around so fast the air shifts with me. “And what side’s that?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He's studying me like he’s cataloguing another one of my faults for later. “You’re....grumpy,” he says finally, like he’s still testing the word on his tongue. “Usually, when you’re pissed, it’s in the 'literally wanting to murder someone territory. But this—” he gestures vaguely at me, “...this is more sulky. Like a teenager who didn’t get his way.”

“I’m not fucking grumpy,” I bite out.

He arches a brow, lips twitching. “As you’re clearly proving right now.”

I exhale through my nose, sharp. Then watch as he pushes off the desk and slides both hands into his pockets. “Just talk to him,” he says with that calm finality.

I shake my head. “That your solution for everything? Just talk?!”

He shrugs. “It’s the one that works. Saves time, spares a lot of pointless emotional stress too.”

“I’ve tried telling him—”

He cuts me off, voice steady. “I said talk, not tell. Big difference.”

He takes a few steps closer, gaze fixed on me. “If you told him you don’t want to, then you need to be clear on why. And honest about it. If you’re not ready, say that. If you feel like he’s pushing too hard, say that too. I’m sure you get the gist.”

He crosses his arms loosely. “Just hash it out. Today, preferably. Because if you wait, it’ll pile up, and by the time you finally talk, it’ll feel like trying to climb a mountain blindfolded.....bare-handed, in the dark. And as bad as you’re feeling right now, ” He gives me a pointed look. “That’s gonna feel much worse.”

I hold his stare, tension still winding tight through my shoulders. Then I mutter, “You always been this insightful?”

He smiles, that slow, self-satisfied curve of his mouth. “Thanks, it’s the therapy. Works wonders, maybe try it sometime.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs, short and quiet, before glancing at his watch. “I should get ready for that meeting. Lunch tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” I say, turning toward the door again. “I’m helping a guy with his farm.”

There’s a beat of silence while I walk, then...“I’m sorry, come again?”

I look over my shoulder, and the expression on his face... confusion and disbelief, almost makes me laugh. He just stares at me like I’ve started speaking in a language he’s never heard before. “The fuck do you mean you’re helping someone with their farm?”

“Exactly that,” I say seriously. “Met a guy who needed help. I’m heading out tomorrow to see what the place looks like, figure out what he needs.”

His brows inch up, his mouth opens like he might say something but then decides against it. He looks at me like his brain’s trying to reboot but keeps getting stuck halfway.

I almost comment on it, but don’t. Instead, I grab the door handle. “See you.”

And before he can recover enough to start dissecting that too, I’m already walking.