I check my schedule.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG3utKPLxXD
I check the clock.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQozwE0HN4L
My schedule.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZkcYWOZDwK
Then the clock again.
Yup. Time for me to eat lunch.
I get up from my chair with a stretch that pops something in my back in a way that feels medically concerning. I’ll probably drive to McDonald’s and get chicken nuggets. Or maybe I’ll walk to the sandwich place next door if the sidewalk isn’t too loud today.
I am three steps from freedom when the door opens.
Another person walks in.
She is… too cheery. Aggressively so. Smiling like she is auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. Nobody this upbeat belongs in therapy.
“Do you have a minute?” she asks.
I triple-check my schedule. I am thorough. I am precise.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9RS41lWBxj
“No,” I say. “I do not, in fact, have a minute.”
This is not what the schedule says.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzK4s2EpzCh
The schedule says: Lunch.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjF6I29hWaf
The schedule does not say: Surprise Emotional Ambush.
She sits on the couch anyway.
Why.
I stare at her. She stares back. Still smiling. Unwavering. Disturbing.
“I just need to talk,” she says. “It’ll be quick.”
Quick is a lie humans tell to gain entry.
“I am not available,” I repeat. “I am scheduled to consume food.”
“Oh!” she laughs. “You can eat after.”
No.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0fwVKWs3WD
Incorrect.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjpn8la3YK6
Dangerously incorrect.
I sit back down very slowly, like maybe if I move carefully enough this won’t become real. My stomach growls in betrayal.
“What is the issue,” I ask flatly, already grieving my nuggets.
She clasps her hands together. “I’m just… so happy all the time! And people keep telling me it’s fake.”
I blink.
“…You came to therapy because you are happy.”
“Yes!”
That did not answer anything.
“They say I’m ‘toxic positive,’” she continues. “But I’m just trying to help!”
I nod once. Slowly. “People often dislike unsolicited optimism.”
Her smile wobbles. Just a little.
“But being positive is good,” she insists.
“Not always,” I say. “Sometimes it is dismissive.”
Silence.
Her hands unclasp.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
She frowns. A real frown. Not the performative kind. “I never thought about it like that.”
I lean back, legs propped on the desk, hunger making me bold. “If someone is drowning, telling them to be grateful for the water is unhelpful.”
She laughs. Then stops. “Oh.”
We sit there. The clock ticks. Each second steals another fry from me spiritually.
“So what should I do?” she asks.
“Listen,” I say. “Without correcting their feelings.”
She nods slowly. Thoughtful now. Quieter.
“Thank you,” she says, standing up. “This was really helpful.”
I nod. Again.
She leaves.
I immediately stand, grab my bag, and power-walk out of the office before another human can ruin my life.
As I reach the door, the receptionist calls out, “Great session!”
I do not respond.
I am late for lunch.
And I just wanted a fucking kid’s meal.
I open the door.
The street is loud. I mean—of course it’s loud. Streets are always loud. But right now it’s too loud. Horns. Engines. Footsteps. Someone laughing directly into the void. It all crashes into me at once like my brain has no firewall.
I hold my hands over my ears and rush toward my car.
I knew I should have stayed in the country. Fields don’t yell at you. Trees mind their business.
When I reach my car, I pull my hands away—RIP my hearing—and immediately regret it. Everything is sharp again. Too bright. Too fast.
I pat my pockets for my keys.
Left pocket: phone.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx4Dx6PM2L2
Right pocket: nothing useful.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV4hGMol7xo
Jacket: receipts, a coin, existential dread.
I freeze.
No.
I pat again. Harder. Faster. Like maybe the keys will appear out of shame.
They do not.
My brain helpfully supplies every worst-case scenario in under two seconds:
I left them in the office.
I left them in the chair.
They are gone forever.
This is my life now. I live in the parking lot.
I close my eyes and press my forehead against the car door. The metal is cool. That helps a little.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Think.”
Thinking is hard when your stomach is screaming about nuggets and the city is screaming about everything.
I check my bag.
There they are.
I exhale so hard I almost fold in half.
Keys obtained. Crisis downgraded.
I unlock the car, slide into the driver’s seat, and shut the door with more force than strictly necessary. The silence afterward is immediate and delicious. Like being underwater.
I just sit there for a moment. Breathing. Hands still shaking a little.
Then my stomach growls again.
“Yes,” I tell it. “I know.”
I start the car.
Lunch is happening.
If another person tries to talk to me before I get food, I will simply combust.
Right. Time to get nuggets.
I drive to McDonald’s and slide into the drive-thru line behind a truck that is idling too loudly. I grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead.
Apple juice and nuggets.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwjp9JGDhtG
Apple juice and nuggets.
This is the plan. It is simple. It is achievable.
“I want apple juice and nuggets,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
The speaker crackles to life.
“Welcome to McDonald’s—what can I get started for you?”
My brain blanks.
No. No this is the same script. I have rehearsed. We have done this before. Why is my brain like this.
“I would like,” I begin carefully, “the chicken nuggets. A kid’s meal.”
A pause. Static.
“What sauce?”
I freeze.
I did not account for sauce.
“Barbecue,” I say, because that is what I always say when confronted unexpectedly.
“And what drink?”
I feel my entire soul lean forward.
“Apple juice,” I say. Clear. Confident. Triumphant.
“Anything else?”
No.
“No,” I say firmly. “That will be all.”
“Pull forward.”
Yes. Success. Flawless execution.
I inch forward and wait at the window, leg bouncing now that my body has noticed the adrenaline drop. A car horn honks somewhere behind me. I flinch.
The window opens.
The worker hands me the bag and the tiny carton of apple juice like it is a sacred offering.
“Have a good day!”
I nod. Words feel optional right now.
I park two rows away, shut off the engine, and just… exist.
I open the bag.
Nuggets.
Perfect. Golden. Uncomplicated.
I stab one with a fork I absolutely did not need but brought anyway. Dip it in sauce. Bite.
The world quiets.
I sip the apple juice.
Cold. Sweet. Acceptable.
This, I think, is the most human I have felt all day.
I look at the clock.
Lunch is already almost over.
Eat and drive.
Here we go.
I inhale one nugget like it is fuel rather than food, cap the apple juice with my teeth, and pull back onto the road. Five minutes later—five—I am pulling into the parking lot again like I have learned absolutely nothing.
…
Wait.
Why am I doing this?
I turn the engine off and just sit there.
Why.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb6w8Z7kCeo
Why am I coming back.
I literally had a chance to escape. I could have driven anywhere. Home. The countryside. Another state. I could be someone new. A cryptid. A rumor.
WHY AM I COMING BACK?
NO.
I didn’t apply for this job. I don’t even have a license. I don’t have a degree. I don’t have a name badge. I barely have emotional stability before noon.
This is not my responsibility.
My hand still opens the car door.
I walk inside anyway.
The receptionist smiles at me like this is normal. Like I belong here. Like I didn’t just kidnap a profession.
I nod back. Muscle memory. Survival instinct.
I sit down in the correct chair.
Of course it’s still the correct chair.
I hold my apple juice like a grounding object. Like a weapon. Like proof that I am still a person who needs things.
There is a knock at the door.
I stare at the door.
The clock ticks.
I take one sip of apple juice.
“…Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”
Against my will.
Again.
41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaSLViZCLBA
and then Add to home screen.