We arrive at a sprawling shopping center on the outskirts of a city that I miss the name of, and Zoe parks the car, killing the engine. She straightens out the lapels of her blazer before stepping out onto the pavement, and I follow her inside.

“This place is a hidden gem,” she tells me, pride in her voice.

Once inside, it’s as if Zoe develops a laser focus, heading straight for a store called Plaisir, and I hurry to keep up. She immediately spots a form-fitting, lacy black dress and lifts it off the rack, holding it up to her body.

“What do you think? Is this me?”

“Beautiful. You should try it on.”

She perks up, draping the dress over her arm and continuing to leaf through the racks. “I will.”

I do the same, eyeing a forest-green dress, until I take one look at the price tag and put it back. Window shopping it is.

After a while of looking through the clothes, I notice Zoe watching me out of the corner of her eye.

“How have you been doing with everything?” she asks, keeping her voice low.

Her question catches me off guard. “I kind of feel like I’m waiting to wake up again, if that makes sense. Like this is all a dream, and I’m just riding it out.”

“Mm,” she hums.

I think for a beat longer, trying to form my thoughts into words. “And it feels like I’m playing catch-up on someone else’s life. It doesn’t feel like it’s mine. I don’t know if that will go away.”

“It will,” she tells me gently, and my throat becomes thick. “Everything doesn’t have to go back to the way it was. You can choose what you want. It is your life, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You get to decide.”

I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to talk about it with someone who wasn’t my mother or Dr. Meyer. “Thanks, Zoe,” I say, working to keep my voice steady and letting the fabric of a soft sweater slip from my fingers as I move to the next rack, not really paying attention to the clothes anymore.

“Anytime. You know, just because the old you wanted to run away after high school and become famous, that doesn’t mean the new you has to do the same. You could totally hate acting now.”

“That’s true,” I agree, even though there have been times that it’s clear she expects me to act a certain way. “I needed to hear that.”

“Any other problems you want me to solve?” she teases.

“Well,” my voice falters. “I’ve also been having these weird flashbacks.”

She pauses, tilting her head. “Flashbacks?”