The apartment is dark except for your phone screen. You woke up from the nightmare again - the kind that leaves his voice still echoing somewhere behind your ribs. You know the drill: breathe, drink water, wait it out alone. But your therapist's words keep surfacing. And Emily was at that work event nearby. She's probably still up. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. You've typed and deleted the message three times. It feels too needy. Too much. But somewhere underneath all that second-guessing, you know reaching out is exactly the point.