TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY-ONE DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Finn O'Connell.

In present day, the sound of Oliver's voice plays on repeat in Finn's mind for the entirety of his classes.

He's almost certain he hallucinated the entire thing. He... he has to have hallucinated it. There are no literal hauntings. There are no spirits. There are only memories and the strange ways they manifest in the mind.

(Although, Finn has to admit, if there was one soul stubborn enough to continue wandering the earth, it would be Oliver Sallow.)

(Stay, illusion! the miniature Ollie inside him quotes wistfully. Finn picks him up by the scruff of his neck and stuffs him back into the depths of his memory where he belongs.)

Maybe he can ask Samira if hallucinations are a side effect of the exercise she told him to practice. A few weeks ago, they tried something called interoceptive exposure during one of his therapy sessions. It basically means performing activities that provoke the feelings he associates with an oncoming panic attack—like nausea, dizziness, and shortness of breath.

During their very first appointment, she drew up a model to visualize the vicious cycle that feeds his panic disorder. Often, when he notices changes in his body sensations, his brain jumps to the conclusion that they're a sign he's going to have a panic attack, which then leads to more panic symptoms that in turn make him even more anxious. Through getting used to these feelings, he's supposed to learn to not immediately label them as something dangerous but as momentary sensations that will pass.

It made a lot of sense when she explained it to him, and he supposes it's helped. His number of panic attacks per week has gotten way less, to the point that he's almost gone a whole fourteen days without one.

That was, of course, until he opened his eyes to find his dead ex-boyfriend hovering in the doorway to his room.

"Finn?" he looks up with a start when he hears his name. Samira is leaning out the door of her office, a smile on her face as she watches him rush to gather his bags and cross the small waiting room. "Come on in."

He shuffles past her into the office. It's cozier than he thought it would be when he first came here. Somehow, he expected it to be cool and clinical, harsh lights and a stiff couch to sit on. Instead, it's something that could pass for a living room. The walls are painted a dark green, barely visible behind the rows of bookshelves; the couch is worn leather with a mountain of pillows and a comfortable throw blanket; the coffee table almost always holds a bowl of snacks.

In one corner, there's a chest with board games and a table for playing with kinetic sand for Samira's younger patients. The tall windows open up into the lush green of a small garden where they sometimes sit on an old wooden bench and listen to the birds when Finn doesn't feel like talking just yet.

"How was school today?" Samira inquires as she settles into the armchair opposite Finn. Today, she's wearing a dark red turtleneck that matches her hijab. She always colour-coordinates.

"Fine," he says.

He knows what she's going to say even before she opens her mouth. "Descriptive words, please?"

"It was okay." He reaches for one of the fidget toys on the coffee table. "I had to do a presentation. I was nervous, at first, but I didn't panic. The rest was just the usual."

"That sounds great! Have you gotten a mark for your presentation yet?"

"I got a B+."

"Not bad," she acknowledges. Finn can't help but preen. When Samira praises him, she always sounds genuinely thrilled. There's something easy about talking to her—much easier than it is with his mum or Coach Wiley. He thinks it's because she has no expectations he needs to fulfill. Or at least, none that he can noticeably feel. "A-Levels are coming up, right?"

"Yeah. In three months."

"Are you nervous for them at all?"

"A bit." Finn messes around with one of the buttons on the fidget cube. "I just hope I get into one of the unis I applied for."

Samira nods in understanding. "How are you feeling about leaving for uni this summer?"

The words are out before he can think much about them. "I just hope I actually get to do it. Leave, I mean."

The small furrow between Samira's brows that shows she is listening changes into the one that shows she's picked up on something that'll likely pop up in today's client notes. "Why do you think you might not get to do that?"

"It's stupid, really." Finn sinks a little farther into the couch. The leather creaks softly. "I just... I guess I feel a bit bad about it. You know, leaving my mum and everything."

"Leaving your mum?" she echoes. That's one thing she often does. Finn will say something without thinking much about it, and she'll throw it back at him. He usually only realizes how messed up some of his thoughts sound when he has her for a parrot.

"I don't mean—I don't mean I'm, like, abandoning her. I just know that if I'm gone, she won't really have anyone. She'll be all alone in the flat. She'll have to find someone else to go grocery shopping for her. She just... depends on me, I guess."

"Finn," Samira says. She's using the gentle voice of someone about to give him a hard pill to swallow. "Your mum is an adult woman. You should not feel responsible for her to the point that you're actually considering not going to uni just to take care of her."

"I'm not actually considering that," Finn objects. It sounds weak even to his own ears. "I will go. It's just that my dad doesn't get it. I do, though. I know what it's like to be stuck like that. It's not her fault."

"No," Samira says. "It's not. But just like it's not her fault that she can't leave the house, it is not your place to feel guilty about moving out. You are the child, Finn, not the parent."

Letting out a long breath, Finn lets his head loll back against the headrest.

They sit in quiet for a moment.

"How about the homework I gave you? Did you try the exposure technique?"

"I did. Spun around on my chair for a whole minute every day."

"Very good," Samira chuckles. "And how did that feel?"

"Like I was going to puke," Finn matter-of-factly reports. He hesitates. "I... It was weird, but when I did it yesterday, I thought I saw something."

"And what was that?"

At the memory, a chill runs down Finn's bare arms. He has to work himself up for a few moments before he can say his name out loud. "Oliver."

Almost as soon as it's out, he feels a prickle on the back of his neck. He glances around the room a few times, as if Oliver is going to pop up out of nowhere like he's fucking Bloody Mary or something.

He doesn't, obviously.

Opposite him, Samira's drafting-client-notes-frown morphs into her running-through-the-entire-ICD-10-frown. "Thank you for telling me that, Finn. Can you explain a bit more?"

Finn rubs at his eyes. They're still dry and stinging from his night tossing and turning in bed. "I thought I saw him standing in my room. He was saying something, I think, but I wasn't really listening. Then I had a panic attack. He was gone when it stopped."

Samira opens her mouth to ask another question, but Finn beats her to it. "Are hallucinations like that a normal side effect for exposure stuff?"

"No," she gingerly says. "But there is a growing number of studies that indicates hallucinations could be linked to post-traumatic stress disorder. And we shouldn't underestimate the effect that grief has on us. It's only been three months, Finn."

Gulping, Finn stares down at his hands. He knows the seven stages of grief. He also knows that, as much as he wishes he were, he is nowhere near acceptance. Depending on the day, he's swinging wildly between anger, depression, and bargaining. Mostly anger. (Mostly, he just misses him.)

"Well," Samira says, offering Finn a smile. "This got a bit heavy, didn't it? How about we take a little breather. There's a relaxation technique called progressive muscle relaxation that I'd like to try with you today. How about you lie down for this?"

Finn gets on his back and closes his eyes all too gladly.

***

After therapy, Finn goes grocery shopping. During his appointment, his mum sent him a list on WhatsApp like she often does—by now, he knows exactly where to find most items at Blissby's tiny Costco. He walks through the aisles on auto-pilot, his eyes slightly unfocused as the music blaring in his headphones drowns out the sounds of the other shoppers. It's one of Oliver's playlists. Finn has never really understood his taste. He still doesn't, if he's honest. He listens to them anyway.

At home, he's ambushed by his mum the second he makes it to the top of the stairs. She waits for him outside the door to their flat, beaming as he hands her one of the heavy reusable bags she insists he uses to shop. "Hey! How was your day? Did you get everything? It's so warm for February today, isn't it?"

Finn gives a vague hum and lets himself be ushered into the flat.

"Not very talkative today?" she asks as she closes the door behind her.

"I just talked for forty-five minutes, Mum," Finn mumbles. "I can tell you about my day later at dinner, okay?"

"Oh." She smiles to cover up her disappointment, but Finn still feels it like a punch to the gut. "Of course. Sorry. I'm making lasagna, how does that sound?"

Finn tries to tell himself that this is progress. A few weeks ago, his mum tried to ask him about what he'd told Samira every time he came home, anxious that there was something he wasn't sharing with her. Therapy is a foreign concept to both of his parents; scary, even. In a strange reversal of cause and effect, going to therapy, to them, signifies that something is truly wrong with you. It took Mrs. Thistlecloth holding a fiery speech at the parent-teacher-conference and a tearful breakdown from Finn to get them to understand that he needed to see a professional about his problems, not take more of the homeopathic placebos his mum sells for a living.

"Sounds great." He pauses to press a kiss to her cheek before he drags himself down the corridor and into his room.

Like always, he leaves the door slightly ajar behind him. If he were Samira, he would conclude that he wants to show his mum that she isn't alone by avoiding both literally and figuratively shutting her out. If he were Oliver, he would be concerned about his reluctance to set boundaries with her.

But he's Finn, and he's just tired.

Sluggishly, he moves around his room, setting his bag down next to his desk, swapping his school uniform for sweatpants and a knit sweater. It's as he's changing that his eyes land on a heap of black fabric hung in the back of his closet.

He's not sure if it's the weird maybe-hallucinations or his exhaustion that makes him pick it up. It's Oliver's coat, the black one that reached past his knees that he wore to school almost every day. Finn's breathing hitches as his fingers brush over the little enamel pin still attached to the lapel.

Slowly, he lifts it to his nose. It doesn't smell like Oliver anymore, not even like his cigarettes. It just smells like closet.

The rest of it is still familiar, though. It still fits Finn the way it used to, the fabric heavy as it hangs off his frame, the sleeves so long he has to roll them up. It feels... safe.

Drawing it tightly around himself, he curls up on his bed, his nose tucked into the upturned collar. In this coat, he can pretend he's sixteen again. If he closes his eyes, he's in the library again; rain pattering, voices murmuring, and Oliver Sallow always within reach.

*****************************

happy friday!!!

some of my psych studies really came in clutch for this one. did you guys enjoy going to therapy with finn?

today's song is this town by niall horan. the line yesterday i thought i saw your shadow running 'round really hits different in this context and i want to tell you everything, the words i never got to say the first time around just makes my weep when i think of them lol

in the next chapter we're going back in time and meeting oliver's foster family!! until then <3