I walked up to the building and immediately knew something was wrong. Not wrong-wrong—more like “someone rearranged the planet while I wasn’t looking” wrong. The facade of the office had changed. New paint. New logo. Somehow, the plants looked aggressive. And the door handle was inexplicably sticky.
I groaned, checking my bag for the twenty-first time. Monthly therapy. Supposedly.
I pushed the door open. The fluorescent lights buzzed like they were mocking me. They didn’t hum politely. They SCREAMED. Every part of my brain screamed back. A strong whiff of coffee hit me in the face like an unwelcome high-five from someone I barely know. And the reception area. Oh God, the reception area. Every chair was new, every poster was motivational in a way that seemed personally threatening. One read: “You are capable of amazing things.” I do not feel capable. I feel like a soggy sock.
I froze in the doorway, debating. Stand and risk dizziness under the fluorescent death rays? Or sit and suffer the itchy chair from hell? My life has never been more high stakes.
I chose… neither. I hovered for exactly three seconds, then gently lowered myself into the chair, rocking slightly, like a human trying to cope with all incoming sensory aggression.
The chair was itchy. Every fiber clawing at my skin. My pants now felt like sandpaper. My brain is screaming.
I tried to focus on the waiting room magazines. I wasn’t supposed to be here anyway. My appointment was in fifteen minutes. My therapist had probably… I don’t know… fallen into a vortex? Taken a spontaneous vacation? Been abducted by aliens? All equally likely.
Then a voice.
“You must be the new therapist!”
I blinked. Slowly. My brain stalled. Process: ERROR. Question: What did you just say?
“I—I mean… no,” I said, but it came out as a squeak that sounded like a dying mouse.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give me the chance to clarify. She smiled at me like I had just passed some invisible hiring test.
“Great! You’ll be starting today, then. Let me show you the schedule.”
I could feel my pulse in my ears. This could not be happening. I didn’t want to be the new therapist. I wanted… I don’t know… to sit quietly, maybe stare at the wall, maybe gently rock myself some more. Maybe go home and hide under a blanket and eat cheese straight from the package.
But apparently that was not on the table today.
I nodded. The motion was automatic. My inner monologue, however, was screaming:
“Jennifer. You are not a therapist. You do not know what you are doing. This is a nightmare. Why is this happening.”
I followed her toward the office like a human-shaped puppet. My brain kept repeating the mantra: Just...folllow...instructions...which I do not have...send help…
The receptionist put a hand on my back.
I don’t like it. Why is she even touching me? There is no emergency. I am not lost. I am walking just fine on my own.
She leads me down a narrow hall to an office at the very end. The walls are too close. The carpet pattern is loud. My brain catalogs everything whether I ask it to or not.
The person inside the office is angry. That much is immediately obvious. Their posture is rigid. Jaw clenched. Arms crossed like they’re holding themselves together by force.
But I am also angry.
I quickly walk into the office. I can feel the receptionist and 'my client' staring at me as I cross the room and rearrange the furniture.
Chair moved. Desk shifted slightly to the left. Lamp rotated. Window blinds adjusted exactly three notches.
There. Now I’m not angry.
The receptionist clears her throat. “I’ll, uh—send them in,” she says, retreating like she has just witnessed something illegal.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
The angry person sits down slowly, eyes following my every movement like I might rearrange them next. I sit too—my chair, the Correct Chair, the one facing the door but not directly under the light.
We stare at each other.
I wait.51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAM46Fz31xj
They wait.
This is probably my cue to say something. I search my brain. There is nothing. Just static and the faint echo of you should have brought the book.
“So,” the client snaps, leaning forward. “Are you going to start or what?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Yes,” I say. That feels safe. Noncommittal. True in theory.
They sigh loudly, rubbing their face. “I don’t even know why I’m here. This is pointless.”
I nod.51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZF5aAXFjvu
“It might be,” I agree.
They freeze.
“What?”
“I said it might be pointless,” I clarify. “Statistically, some therapy is ineffective depending on compatibility and expectations.”
They stare at me. Mouth slightly open. Angry, but… confused now. That’s different.
“…You’re not like my last therapist.”
“I am aware,” I say. “I am unlike most people.”
That seems to do something. Their shoulders drop a fraction. Not relaxed—just… less defensive.
They talk then. Not because I asked—because the silence became unbearable and they needed to fill it. Complaints. Work stress. People not listening. Being told to “calm down” when that is the least calming phrase known to humanity.
I listen. Actually listen. It’s easy when I’m not trying to perform.
At some point they stop and look at me. “You’re very… quiet.”
“I am gathering information,” I say.
“…Is that good?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Another pause. Then, unexpectedly, they laugh. Just once. Short and surprised, like it slipped out without permission.
“Huh,” they say. “That’s… weirdly comforting.”
I make a note in my head.
Silence does not mean failure.
When the session ends, they stand by the door, hesitating. “Same time next week?”
I nod again. “If the building still exists.”
They smile. A real one.
After they leave, I sit alone in the office, heart pounding, brain buzzing.
I did not scream.51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZK8ZHebxS5
I did not flee.51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYhJGbBufwW
No one cried excessively.
I think—I think—that counts as success.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I still have no idea what I’m doing.
But apparently… neither does anyone else.
The door opened and a woman walked in.
Her eyes were leaking. Actively. There was fluid. Too much fluid. She was also making a noise—high-pitched and broken and wet.
Oh god. What is that terrible noise.
“You sound horrible,” I stated.
The woman sniffed violently. “My husband has been cheating on me!”
I blinked. “Okay.”
She waited for more. I did not have more.
“And then,” she continued, voice trembling, “and then… he told me he liked meat!” Her voice went up an octave and cracked in the middle like glass breaking.
I slowly took my glasses off my face and set them on the desk. This was serious. Glasses-off situations always are.
“Ma’am,” I said carefully. “Are you vegan?”
“Yes?”
I nodded once. “Well that’s why he left.”
“WHAT?!”
Her grief instantly upgraded to rage. Honestly? Impressive transition speed.
“That’s not—” she spluttered. “That’s NOT how that works!”
“He likes meat,” I said. “You do not. This is a fundamental lifestyle incompatibility.”
“You’re saying my marriage ended because of a burger?”
“No,” I said. “Probably several burgers over time.”
She stood up halfway from the chair. “This is the WORST therapy session I’ve ever had!”
I frowned. That seemed statistically unlikely.
“I am not finished,” I said.
She froze. Sat back down. Humans respond strangely to confidence.
“You are upset,” I continued. “But the cheating is the problem, not the meat.”
She stared at me. Tears paused. Buffering.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “He violated trust. The dietary confession is… supplementary information.”
“…Oh.”
She sniffed again, less violently this time.
“So,” she asked, voice small, “what am I supposed to do now?”
I stared at the wall behind her. I stared at the clock. I stared at my glasses like they might answer for me.
“I do not know,” I admitted. “But yelling at yourself for his decisions will not help.”
Her lips trembled. “No one’s ever said that to me.”
I nodded. “People often blame themselves incorrectly.”
Silence settled. Softer this time.
After a moment, she wiped her face. “You’re… very blunt.”
“Yes.”
“…But you’re not wrong.”
Also yes.
When she left, she muttered, “Huh,” like she’d accidentally discovered something important.
I sat alone again.
I put my glasses back on.
My chest felt tight. My palms were sweaty. My brain replayed the session on a loop labeled You Have Ruined Everything.
I stared at the desk.
Today, I learned two things:
Crying is loud.
Honesty is apparently a high-risk, high-reward strategy.
Session two was worse.
Much worse.
And somehow…
They scheduled session three.
51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTHiaBeJTx8
and then Add to home screen.