“Jo…” I say. My throat feels clogged. “I’m fine.” Clearly, she isn’t. I want to tell her that I’m sorry. But I know words don’t mean anything. Change does. At least, that’s what my therapist tells me. All of us have been going to therapy. It’s been online with masks to protect our identity, but we’ve been going. Jo told us we had to go or she’d leave us. So I planted a tracker in her and made sure she understood she could never leave. But I still went to therapy. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Most sessions, I sweat through my shirt, even though we don’t talk about
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