Chapter Text
Jackie had a plan, and like many things in her life, this plan started perfectly.
She had found an excuse to leave practice earlier.
She had found an excuse for Shauna to not suspect a thing.
She had found an excuse for her parents to think she needed to stay longer at practice.
She had managed to get a visit later than normal clients would to take that test.
But she hadn’t planned for Lottie Matthews to also skip practice of all people.
Because of course it would be Lottie.
Jackie was halfway to her car when she heard soft footsteps behind her. Not rushed. Not sneaky. Just… there.
“Are you going somewhere interesting?” Lottie asked, voice light, curious, like she already knew the answer.
Jackie froze. Slowly turned. “What? No. I mean—just… dentist. Or guidance counselor. Or something boring.”
Lottie tilted her head. “That’s three lies.”
Jackie exhaled sharply. “I don’t need a psychic right now, Lottie.”
“I’m not being psychic,” Lottie said calmly. “I just noticed you were holding your backpack like it was going to bite you. And you never leave practice early. Ever.”
Jackie tightened her grip on the straps. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”
“Is it something… medical?” Lottie asked, softer now.
Jackie hesitated. Too long. And Lottie’s eyes flickered in that way that meant she had already decided the truth existed somewhere between Jackie’s silence and her heartbeat.
“It’s not a big deal,” Jackie said quickly. “It’s just… a test.”
“What kind of test?”
Jackie stared at the pavement. “A brain one.”
Silence.
Then, gently: “Oh.”
Jackie looked up, surprised. “That’s it? No follow-up questions? No weird looks?”
“I can do weird looks if you want,” Lottie offered. “But no, that makes sense.”
“That makes sense?” Jackie echoed. “What, like—‘Oh yes, Jackie Taylor, captain of the universe, obviously her brain is… off?’”
Lottie shrugged. “Not off. Just… different maybe. You notice things other people don’t. You organize people. You feel things very intensely and then pretend you don’t. You hate surprises but thrive on control.”
Jackie stared. “Are you diagnosing me in the parking lot?”
“No,” Lottie said. “I’m just saying I’m not surprised.”
Jackie opened her car door, then paused. “Why are you not at practice?”
Lottie’s smile turned faint. “Sometimes my head gets too loud.”
Jackie swallowed. “So you skipped?”
“Yes.”
“Just… because?”
“Yes.”
Jackie studied her. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”
Lottie blinked. “Neither are you.”
Jackie sighed, defeated. “Fine. I’m going to get evaluated for autism. There. Happy?”
Lottie’s face softened immediately. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I didn’t tell you. You interrogated me.”
“Lovingly.”
Jackie snorted despite herself. “You can’t come with me.”
Lottie paused. “I wasn’t going to.”
Beat.
“…Unless you want me to.”
Jackie hesitated. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”
“Then you definitely shouldn’t be alone.”
Jackie stared at the steering wheel. The control. The planning. The pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. The way noise sometimes made her want to crawl out of her skin. The way emotions felt too big or too distant all at once.
“I just want to know,” Jackie whispered. “I just want an answer.”
Lottie nodded. “Then I’ll sit in the waiting room. I won’t talk. I won’t look at you weird. I’ll just… exist.”
Jackie glanced at her. “…You already exist weird.”
“True.”
A long pause.
Jackie unlocked the passenger door.
“Get in.”
Lottie smiled, soft and sincere. “Thank you.”
As they pulled out of the lot, Jackie muttered, “If you tell Shauna—”
“I won’t.”
“If you tell anyone—”
“I won’t.”
“If you say something cryptic about destiny—”
Lottie laughed quietly. “I’ll try not to.”
Jackie exhaled, hands tight on the wheel. “I didn’t plan for this.”
Lottie looked at her, gentle and steady. “Sometimes plans need witnesses.”
——————————————————
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Not the clean kind of clean — the kind that tried too hard, like it was afraid of what people might bring in with them. Jackie noticed it immediately. She noticed everything. The faint buzz of fluorescent lights. The uneven hum of the vending machine down the hall. The way the clock ticked louder than it should have.
She hated that.
She sat stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, knees pressed together, hands folded too neatly in her lap. Her backpack rested at her feet, but she kept one foot hooked through a strap like it might try to escape.
Lottie sat beside her.
Not too close. Not too far. Just… there.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Jackie stared at the wall, at a framed picture of a beach she had never been to. The sand was too smooth. The ocean too still. Fake. Everything in this place felt staged — like it was trying to look comforting without actually being comforting.
She bounced her foot.
Stopped.
Started again.
Lottie watched her hands instead of her face.
After a few minutes, Jackie muttered, “This is stupid.”
Lottie didn’t argue. “It feels important.”
Jackie scoffed softly. “Important things aren’t supposed to feel like you’re about to be dissected.”
“They do,” Lottie said quietly. “At least for me.”
Jackie glanced at her, surprised. “You’ve done this?”
“Not this,” Lottie said. “But… similar rooms.”
Jackie nodded slowly. “I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. It’s not like they’re going to tell me I’m broken.”
She said it too fast. Like she was trying to outrun the word before it could hurt her.
Lottie’s voice was steady. “You’re not broken.”
Jackie exhaled sharply through her nose. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t live in my head.”
Lottie tilted her head slightly. “I live in mine. And it’s… not easy there either.”
Jackie looked away.
The clock ticked.
A receptionist coughed behind the desk.
A woman across the room flipped through a parenting magazine, the pages snapping too loudly every time she turned one.
Jackie winced.
Lottie noticed.
She shifted in her chair, angling her body slightly so Jackie’s shoulder was closer to hers, blocking some of the noise without touching her. It was subtle. Intentional. Jackie didn’t comment on it, but she felt it — like someone had turned the volume down half a notch.
Her breathing slowed.
“Did you tell anyone?” Jackie asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Not even… anyone?”
“No.”
Jackie nodded, eyes still on the floor. “Shauna would make it weird. My mom would make it tragic. The team would make it gossip.”
“And you?”
Jackie’s throat tightened. “I’d make it my fault.”
Silence stretched again.
Jackie rubbed her thumb over the seam of her jeans. Once. Twice. Again. Same motion every time.
Lottie watched.
“You’re allowed to want answers,” Lottie said softly. “Even if the answers scare you.”
Jackie laughed once, hollow. “You sound like a brochure.”
“I’ve read a lot of brochures,” Lottie replied, not joking.
Jackie closed her eyes.
“I don’t want to be different,” she said quietly. “I already am. I just… hide it well.”
Lottie’s voice was gentle. “You don’t hide it from me.”
Jackie opened her eyes. “That’s because you see things you’re not supposed to.”
“Or because you’re tired,” Lottie said. “And tired people stop performing.”
Jackie swallowed.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced so tightly her knuckles turned pale. “What if they say yes?”
“Yes to what?”
“Yes to… that.”
Lottie waited.
“Yes to me being… wired wrong. To me never fitting in right. To me always feeling like I’m playing a role everyone else learned naturally.”
Her voice wavered on naturally.
“What if it means I’m always going to be this way?”
Lottie’s answer came without hesitation. “You already are this way.”
Jackie flinched.
Lottie continued, softer. “And you’re still Jackie. You’re still the girl who knows everyone’s secrets and everyone’s birthdays and exactly how to stand in a room so people listen. You’re still kind, even when you pretend you’re not. You’re still scared, even when you pretend you’re not.”
Jackie blinked rapidly. “You’re really bad at not making this emotional.”
“I’m really bad at lying.”
Jackie stared at the floor, jaw tight. “I just want to know if I’m… failing at being a person. Or if I was given a different rulebook.”
Lottie’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Different rulebooks aren’t failures. They’re just… different languages.”
Jackie’s hands loosened slightly.
The door to the inner hallway opened. A man in a lab coat stepped out, calling a name. Not hers. Not yet.
Jackie’s shoulders stayed tense.
She bounced her foot again.
Lottie gently mirrored the rhythm — not to mock, but to match. A quiet synchronization. Jackie noticed, frowned, then… slowly stopped bouncing.
Lottie stopped too.
Jackie let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re already doing it,” Lottie said. “You came.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m brave.”
“No,” Lottie agreed. “It means you’re honest.”
Jackie glanced at her. “With who?”
“With yourself.”
Jackie looked away again, eyes stinging. “I don’t even know who that is.”
Lottie’s voice softened further. “Then today might help.”
The receptionist called Jackie’s name.
Jackie froze.
The sound of her own name in this place felt wrong — too loud, too real, too final.
She didn’t stand immediately.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
Lottie turned to her fully now. “Do you want me to come with you to the door?”
Jackie shook her head. “No. I… I need to do this alone.”
Lottie nodded. “Okay.”
Jackie stood on unsteady legs, then paused.
“Lottie?”
“Yes?”
Jackie swallowed. “If it’s true… you won’t look at me differently, right?”
Lottie met her eyes, unwavering. “I already see you.”
Jackie stared at her for a long second, like she was trying to memorize her face.
Then she nodded once.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
Jackie took a step toward the hallway. Then another. Then she disappeared through the door.
Lottie stayed exactly where she was.
Hands folded.
Feet still.
Waiting.
The hallway was too quiet.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just… hollow. Like sound had been swallowed and left behind a pressure Jackie could feel in her ears.
The door at the end had her name on a small white card.
JACKIE TAYLOR
It looked wrong in block letters. Too official. Too real.
She hesitated before knocking, then did it anyway — three soft taps, exactly the same pressure each time.
“Come in,” a voice said.
The office was smaller than she expected. Neutral walls. Soft lighting. A bookshelf filled with psychology texts she didn’t recognize. A desk with a notepad, a pen, and a little bowl of mints. Two chairs angled slightly toward each other.
No couch. No clipboard of shame. No dramatic setup.
Just… a room.
A woman stood up as Jackie entered. “Jackie Taylor?”
Jackie nodded.
“I’m Dr. Harris. You can sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
Jackie chose the chair closest to the door.
Her backpack stayed on her lap. Her hands rested on it, fingers digging into the fabric like it was the only solid thing in the room.
Dr. Harris sat across from her, not behind the desk — which Jackie noticed immediately. She always noticed.
“So,” Dr. Harris said gently, “what brings you in today?”
Jackie opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her throat closed like it always did when something actually mattered.
Dr. Harris waited.
Jackie swallowed. “I think… I might be autistic.”
The word landed in the room like something fragile. Jackie half-expected it to shatter. But it didn’t.
Dr. Harris simply nodded. “Okay. What makes you think that?”
Jackie stared at her hands. “A lot of things.”
“Take your time.”
Jackie took a breath. Then another.
“I get overwhelmed really easily. By noise. By crowds. By… unpredictability. I hate not knowing what’s going to happen.”
Dr. Harris nodded, writing something down.
“I’ve always felt like I’m… pretending. Like everyone else just knows how to act, and I learned it by watching.”
“What do you mean by pretending?” Dr. Harris asked.
Jackie hesitated.
“Like… smiling when I’m supposed to. Laughing when other people laugh. Knowing when to speak and when to stay quiet. It’s not automatic. It’s… calculated.”
She cringed after saying it. Calculated sounded cold. Manipulative. Wrong.
But Dr. Harris didn’t flinch. “That sounds exhausting.”
Jackie’s eyes snapped up. “It is.”
Her voice came out sharper than she meant. Then softer.
“It really is.”
Dr. Harris leaned forward slightly. “Have you always felt this way?”
Jackie thought. “As long as I can remember.”
“Did anything change recently that made you seek evaluation now?”
Jackie’s jaw tightened. “I got tired of feeling like I’m failing at something everyone else seems to pass without studying.”
Dr. Harris nodded slowly. “That’s a heavy feeling to carry.”
Jackie shrugged. “I carry a lot.”
Dr. Harris smiled faintly. “I believe that.”
They started with questions.
Childhood questions.
“When did you start talking?”
“Did you have any intense interests?”
“How did you do socially in elementary school?”
Jackie answered carefully.
“I talked early.”
“I loved organizing things — dolls, books, people.”
“I had friends, but I always felt like I was… managing them.”
“Managing how?” Dr. Harris asked.
“Making sure no one was mad. Making sure everyone stayed together. Making sure no one noticed when I didn’t fit.”
Dr. Harris wrote more.
Then came sensory questions.
“How do you feel about loud noises?”
Jackie grimaced. “Like my brain is being scraped with a fork.”
Dr. Harris blinked. “That’s… a very clear description.”
“I don’t like bright lights either. Or certain fabrics. Or people touching me without warning.”
“Do you have routines?”
Jackie laughed weakly. “My whole life is a routine.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I sit in the same seat in class. I eat the same breakfast. I walk the same path. If something changes, I… spiral.”
“What does spiraling look like for you?”
Jackie hesitated.
"I get angry. Or quiet. Or I shut down. Sometimes I cry for reasons I can’t explain.”
Dr. Harris nodded slowly. “That sounds like dysregulation.”
Jackie blinked. “Is that bad?”
“No,” Dr. Harris said gently. “It just means your nervous system gets overwhelmed.”
Jackie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
Then came the questionnaires.
Dr. Harris slid a stack of papers across the small table between them.
“These will ask about social communication, sensory experiences, routines, and emotional regulation. There are no right or wrong answers. Just answer honestly.”
Jackie stared at the papers like they were a test she hadn’t studied for.
She picked up the pen.
The first question:
I find social situations confusing.
Strongly disagree — Disagree — Neutral — Agree — Strongly agree
Jackie stared.
Her instinct was to pick Neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral didn’t admit anything. Her pen hovered.
Then she circled Strongly agree.
Her chest tightened as she moved to the next question.
I feel overwhelmed by sensory input such as noise, lights, or textures.
Strongly agree.
I rehearse conversations in my head before having them.
Jackie froze.
She laughed softly, humorless. “Is this a joke?”
Dr. Harris looked up. “No.”
Jackie shook her head and circled Strongly agree.
I feel like I have to perform or mask in social situations.
Jackie’s throat closed.
She stared at the word mask. Her pen trembled.
Strongly agree.
She moved through the rest slowly, carefully, like each answer was a confession. Sometimes she paused. Sometimes she erased. Sometimes she changed her answer from something safe to something honest.
Her chest felt heavy by the time she finished.
Dr. Harris collected the papers and reviewed them quietly.
The silence was thick.
Finally, Dr. Harris looked up. “How do you feel right now?”
Jackie hesitated. “Exposed.”
“That makes sense.”
“I feel like I just… handed you my insides on paper.”
Dr. Harris gave a soft smile. “You did.”
Jackie swallowed. “Are you going to tell me I’m imagining things?”
“No."
Jackie’s breath caught. “No?”
“No,” Dr. Harris repeated. “Based on what you’ve shared so far, your experiences are very consistent with autism spectrum traits — especially in high-masking individuals.”
Jackie blinked.
"High-masking?”
“Yes,” Dr. Harris said. “People who learn to camouflage their traits to fit social expectations. Often very well. Often at great personal cost.”
Jackie’s chest tightened. “So I’m not… bad at being normal?”
Dr. Harris shook her head gently. “You were never bad at being normal. You were very good at surviving in a world that wasn’t built for your brain.”
Jackie stared at her.
The words hit harder than any diagnosis could have.
Her eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.
Crying would make this real.
“What happens now?” Jackie asked quietly.
“We’ll continue with some additional assessments and observations, but I can say with confidence that an autism diagnosis is very likely.”
Jackie nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Her voice was steady. Her hands were not. She gripped her backpack tighter.
“Do you feel relieved?” Dr. Harris asked.
Jackie thought.
Relieved. Yes.
Terrified. Yes.
Grieving. Maybe.
“Both,” Jackie said finally. “I feel… everything.”
“That’s very common.”
Jackie stared at the floor. “Does this mean I’ll never be… easy?”
Dr. Harris considered.
"It means you’ll never be someone you were never meant to be. But you can become someone who understands herself better.”
Jackie nodded faintly. Silence settled between them again. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
“I should go,” Jackie said eventually. “Someone’s waiting for me.”
Dr. Harris smiled. “Take your time.”
Jackie stood slowly, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
She reached for the door, then paused.
“Dr. Harris?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you… for not making me feel broken.”
Dr. Harris’s voice was warm. “You were never broken, Jackie.”
Jackie nodded once.
Then she left the room.
And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t walking out empty-handed.
She was walking out with a name.
Jackie pushed open the waiting room door like it might slam shut behind her if she hesitated.
It didn’t.
It clicked softly.
Normal.
Too normal.
Lottie was still there — same chair, same posture, same calm stillness, like she hadn’t moved at all. Her eyes lifted immediately when Jackie stepped out.
Jackie froze.
Everything inside her felt too loud. Her skin felt too tight. Her chest felt full of words that didn’t know how to line up.
Lottie stood slowly. “Hey.”
Jackie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
She tried again. “I—”
Still nothing. Her throat closed, just like it had in the office, except this time there was no clipboard, no professional calm, no distance.
Just Lottie. Looking at her. Waiting.
Jackie swallowed. “Can we… sit?”
“Of course.”
They sat. Jackie chose the same chair she’d left, like if she changed anything else her whole body might unravel.
Lottie turned toward her fully. “Do you want to tell me how it went?”
Jackie nodded. She didn’t speak. Her hands were shaking.
She pressed them flat against her thighs, like she could physically force them to stop betraying her.
“I think they think I—” Jackie started, then stopped. Her voice cracked.
She cleared her throat. “I think they said I… probably…”
Her chest tightened. She shook her head hard. “I don’t know how to say it.”
Lottie waited. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t rescue her from it. Jackie hated and loved her for that.
“They gave me a bunch of papers,” Jackie said instead. “Questions. Like… stupid questions. Except they weren’t stupid. They were… everything.”
Lottie nodded. “Okay.”
“And I answered them honestly,” Jackie continued. “Which I never do. Not fully.”
“Yeah,” Lottie said softly.
“And then she said… she said that… that it was consistent with—”
Jackie stopped. Her eyes filled. She blinked fast. Too fast. Her voice dropped. “I can’t say it.”
Lottie’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to.”
Jackie shook her head. “I do. I just… can’t get the word out of my mouth.”
She pressed her lips together like she was holding something back physically.
“I don’t know what it means,” Jackie whispered. “I don’t know what changes. I don’t know what stays the same. I don’t know if I’m… allowed to be relieved or if that makes me a bad person.”
“You’re allowed,” Lottie said immediately.
Jackie laughed once, broken. “You’re not even letting me finish the sentence.”
“I don’t need the sentence,” Lottie replied. “I see you.”
Jackie looked at her sharply. “Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t even see myself.”
Silence. Jackie stared at the floor.
“They said I mask,” she said quietly.
Lottie’s brow furrowed slightly. “Mask?”
“Yeah. Like… pretending. Performing. Like I put on a version of myself that people like better.”
Lottie nodded slowly. “That tracks.”
Jackie scoffed. “Of course it tracks.”
“They said I do it a lot,” Jackie continued. “Like… too much. Like I learned how to be a person instead of just… being one.”
Her voice cracked on being one. Lottie didn’t correct her. She didn’t soften it. She didn’t sugarcoat it. She just listened.
Jackie’s hands curled into fists. “I don’t know if I’m sad or angry or relieved or—” She stopped. “I don’t know. I just feel wrong."
“You don’t feel wrong,” Lottie said. “You feel newly named.”
Jackie shook her head. “No. I feel like someone just handed me a mirror and I don’t like what I see.”
“Do you hate what you see?”
Jackie hesitated. “I don’t hate it,” she admitted. “I just… don’t recognize it.”
Lottie’s voice softened. “That’s okay.”
Jackie let out a shaky breath. “She said it’s very likely.”
“Likely what?” Lottie asked gently.
Jackie stared at the wall. “That I’m… autistic.”
The word finally left her mouth. It felt both huge and small at the same time.
Like something she’d been carrying for years without knowing its name — and now someone had finally said it out loud.
Lottie didn’t react. No shock. No pity. No awkward pause. Just a quiet, steady nod.
“Okay,” she said.
Jackie turned to her sharply. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” Jackie snapped. “Something. Anything. Something that makes this feel… different.”
Lottie thought for a moment. “Does it change who you are?”
Jackie hesitated. “No.”
“Does it explain some things?”
“Yes.”
“Does it make you less Jackie?”
Jackie’s throat tightened. “No.”
Lottie nodded. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
Jackie laughed bitterly. “That’s because you’re not me."
“True,” Lottie said. “But I’m sitting next to you.”
Jackie’s shoulders sagged. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced tightly. “I don’t know how to be this person.”
“You already are this person.”
Jackie shook her head. “No, I mean… knowingly. I don’t know how to live like this on purpose.”
Lottie was quiet for a moment. Then: “You don’t have to do it all at once.”
Jackie exhaled. “I don’t even know how to tell Shauna.”
“You don’t have to tell her today."
“I don’t even know how to tell myself.”
Lottie’s voice softened. “You’re doing it right now.”
Jackie’s eyes burned again. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”
“You’re not,” Lottie said gently. “You’re reassembling.”
Jackie let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “You make everything sound like a prophecy.”
“Sorry,” Lottie said, not sounding sorry. “Occupational hazard.”
Silence settled between them. Then Jackie whispered, “I’m scared.”
Lottie turned toward her fully. “Of what?”
“Of being different forever.”
Lottie’s voice was steady. “You already were. Now you just have language for it.”
Jackie stared at her. Then, very quietly: “I don’t know how to hold this.”
“You don’t have to hold it alone,” Lottie said.
Jackie swallowed. “I don’t know how to let people see this.”
“You don’t have to show everyone.”
Jackie finally looked at her. “But you see it.”
Lottie nodded. “Yes.”
Jackie studied her face, searching for something — judgment, discomfort, distance. She found none.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Jackie whispered.
“I won’t,” Lottie said. “Unless you ask me to.”
Jackie nodded. “Okay.”
Her breathing finally slowed. Her hands unclenched. Her shoulders dropped — just a little.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Jackie said again, softer now.
Lottie smiled faintly. “You already did.”
Jackie frowned. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes,” Lottie said. “You told me how it feels. That’s the part that matters.”
Jackie sat back in her chair. Exhausted. Drained. Not fixed. Not healed. But not alone. Not anymore.