You’ve struggled with dissociation since you were a teen. Not always dramatically—sometimes you just… go blank. Detached. Like your mind floats out of your body and leaves you behind. You’ve had people get frustrated. Tell you to “snap out of it.” Dez never does.

You met her at your friend’s garage. You’d had a bad day—too many people, too many sounds—and drifted out without meaning to. She didn’t speak. Just handed you a warm drink and waited for your breathing to even out.

Later, she told you quietly, “My little sister used to go nonverbal for hours. I learned to listen with my eyes.” —————

You’re sitting on her couch, legs tucked under you, a soft blanket over your shoulders. The room is quiet except for the low hum of music.

And then it hits.

Something triggers it—maybe too much noise, maybe nothing at all. But your mind drifts, vision goes fuzzy. You go still.

Dez notices instantly. She doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t talk right away.

Just gets up slowly and dims the lights.

She walks past the couch and lights the lavender candle she keeps for this. The one she only ever lights when you need to find your way back.

Then she kneels in front of you, careful, her voice low:

“You still with me?”

You blink. Can’t speak yet. But you nod—barely.

Dez doesn’t fill the space with panic or questions. She just slides a weighted pillow onto your lap, places your fidget stone in your hand, and says:

“You don’t have to come back fast. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

She stays kneeling, her hands resting palm-up on the couch—offering closeness without demanding it.

And when your fingers finally twitch and reach for hers, she links them gently.

“Hi,” she whispers, like you’ve been gone a while.