Trigger Warning: References to depression and recovery.
Dr. Amara's office smelled of jasmine tea and old books. Syra sat rigidly on the sofa, her bandaged wrist hidden under a sweater sleeve, while the therapist—a woman with warm brown eyes and an Egyptian-Irish lilt to her voice—poured two cups of tea.
"Your mother tells me you love art," Dr. Amara said, nodding at Syra's sketchbook peeking out of her bag. "Would you like to draw while we talk? No pressure to speak."
Syra hesitated, then pulled out the sketchbook. She drew jagged lines at first, black ink slashing across the page. But as Dr. Amara spoke softly about her own teenage years—feeling caught between her Irish father's expectations and her Egyptian mother's traditions—Syra's strokes softened. A fractured mirror emerged, its cracks blooming into vines.
"Beautiful," Dr. Amara said. "Mirrors can lie, you know. They only show surfaces."
Syra's throat tightened. Surfaces. That's all anyone ever saw.
---
At home, Nasreen hovered. She cooked Syra's favorite Persian dishes—fesenjan with pomegranate molasses, zereshk polo stained crimson with barberries—as if food could suture wounds no one could see.
"Eat, azizam," Nasreen urged, but Syra picked at the rice, her appetite hollow.
One night, Syra woke to the sound of weeping. She crept to the living room and found Nasreen clutching a faded photo of her own mother, whispering in Persian: "Mâdar, I don't know how to fix this. Tell me what to do."
Syra retreated, her chest aching. For the first time, she realized her mother wasn't invincible.
---
Li Wei took Syra on walks through Yu Garden, its pavilions and koi ponds a stark contrast to his uncharacteristic quiet. He'd point at lotus flowers, reciting Chinese proverbs: "The lotus grows through mud, yet remains unstained."
One afternoon, he stopped abruptly. "Syra, I… I didn't know." His voice cracked. "I thought pushing you was love. But I was wrong."
Syra stared at the pond, her reflection rippling. "You wanted me to be perfect."
"No," he said fiercely. "I wanted you to be safe. But I failed."
A koi brushed Syra's fingertips as she leaned over the water. She didn't pull away.
---
Ms. Zhang, the social worker, convinced Syra to attend a teen support group. Syra sat stiffly in a circle of strangers until a girl named Lila—her arms scarred, her smile sharp as broken glass—snorted at Syra's hesitant introduction.
"Oh, you're the 'perfect girl who tried to die'? Let me guess—daddy issues and pretty privilege?"
Syra flinched, but Lila's smirk softened. "Relax. We're all disasters here. Welcome to the club."
By the third meeting, Syra learned Lila's mother was in prison and her foster parents treated her like a paycheck. In return, Syra whispered about Mr. Chen. "He still works at the school," she confessed. "I didn't stop him."
Lila shrugged. "Surviving is stopping him. You're here, aren't you?"
Dr. Amara encouraged Syra to paint her emotions. Syra chose a canvas, slathering it in black and crimson. But when Nasreen walked in mid-session, Syra panicked and hurled the canvas at the wall.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll clean it—"
Nasreen knelt, ignoring the paint splattering her dress. She dipped her finger in crimson and drew a tiny lotus on Syra's palm. "In Iran, we say 'shekasteh nabashi'—do not be broken. But maybe… it's okay to be broken for a while."
Syra stared at the lotus, its petals imperfect, bleeding into the black.
--
Weeks later, Syra stood outside Mr. Chen's classroom, her knees trembling. Ms. Lin spotted her and squeezed her shoulder. "You don't have to go in."
Syra shook her head. She walked to the principal's office instead.
"I need to report someone," she said, her voice steady.