The Therapist

Alex sat slumped on his couch, the faint glow of his laptop screen casting pale light across his features. His jaw was tight, his eyes squinting at the endless tabs open on his browser. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pressing into tense muscles as he scanned yet another forum thread, yet another article.

Nothing.

No mentions of "latent abilities," no documented cases that matched what Lila had described, no explanations for the fire that danced in his mind. Just speculation, pseudoscience, and stories that sounded like something out of a bad sci-fi novel.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before clenching into fists. He pushed the laptop away with a frustrated groan, leaning back into the couch and staring blankly at the ceiling.

"This is insane," he muttered, his voice low and rough with exhaustion. His hands came up to cover his face, the warmth of his palms pressing against his closed eyes as if blocking out the world might offer some clarity.

For a moment, he sat there, his breathing uneven, the silence of his apartment pressing in on him. He could feel his heartbeat thudding in his ears, a dull rhythm that only seemed to amplify his growing sense of dread.

When he finally lowered his hands, his expression was set, resolved in a way that felt almost brittle. His dark eyes flicked to the laptop again, but he didn't reach for it. Instead, he shook his head, muttering bitterly, "There's nothing here. No answers. No 'latent abilities.' Just a whole lot of crazy."

The words tasted sharp and bitter in his mouth. He let out a shaky exhale, his fingers curling and uncurling against his thighs. "Maybe Lila's wrong," he said aloud, as if saying it would make it true. "Maybe this is just… me. Broken. Sick. Crazy."

He stood abruptly, the movement sharp and full of restless energy. The laptop wobbled precariously on the edge of the coffee table, but he barely noticed. He began pacing, his bare feet moving soundlessly over the hardwood. His hands fidgeted, brushing against his sides, tugging at his shirt hem, running through his disheveled hair.

"She has to be wrong," he said, his voice rising slightly, though no one was there to hear him. "This isn't some—some supernatural thing. It's just…" He stopped, his breath hitching slightly. His fists clenched at his sides, and his head dipped forward, his shoulders tightening as if the weight of his thoughts was physically bearing down on him.

He stood like that for a long moment, the silence thick around him. Finally, he straightened, his expression grim but determined.

"Therapy," he said firmly, the word carrying a sense of finality. "That's what I need. A doctor. Someone who can fix this."

With that, Alex grabbed his jacket from the couch, shrugging it on with jerky, frustrated movements. He caught his reflection in the mirror by the door as he passed, and for a moment, he froze.

The man staring back looked haggard, his eyes shadowed and rimmed with redness, his features drawn tight with tension. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he reached up to run a hand over his face, his fingers tracing the faint stubble along his jaw.

"You're not crazy," he whispered to himself, though the words sounded hollow. "You just… need help."

He tore his gaze away, yanking open the door and stepping out into the cold night air. The chill bit at his skin, but he welcomed it, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he descended the steps of his apartment building.

The street was quiet, lit only by the occasional streetlamp and the faint glow of distant city lights. Alex's hands found their way into his pockets as he walked, his steps purposeful but lacking a clear destination.

The further he went, the more his thoughts churned. His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead as he muttered under his breath, "Therapy. That's all. I just need someone to make sense of this… to tell me it's all in my head."

But even as he said the words, a flicker of doubt lingered, unshakable and persistent. His mind kept drifting back to the fire, to the heat that felt so real, so undeniable. He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a shadow, a constant reminder of the questions he couldn't answer.

His pace quickened, his breath coming faster now as he moved through the quiet streets. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that therapy might not hold the answers he was looking for. But it was something. It was a start.

And right now, a start was all he could hope for.

Elsewhere, under the cold fluorescent glow of streetlights, a young woman stepped out of a towering building with the faintly lit sign Gracefield Behavioral Clinic above its entrance. Her shoulders were hunched, and her grip on the strap of her overstuffed bag was tight, knuckles pale against the faded leather. She muttered under her breath, her steps hurried and uneven as though trying to stomp out her frustration with each footfall.

"I know I could've handled that better," she grumbled, her voice low but laced with anger. "Six months of observation, and they still don't trust me. 'Not enough experience,' my ass. If I had the chance…" She let out a sharp exhale, her lips pressing into a hard line.

Her appearance was as disheveled as her thoughts. Her frizzy auburn hair stuck out in uneven waves around her face, and the loose bun she'd attempted at the nape of her neck was now a hopeless tangle. Her white blouse was half-untucked from her pencil skirt, and a coffee stain darkened the sleeve of her cardigan, an unfortunate souvenir from earlier in the day.

The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she caught it with an irritated huff, tugging it back into place. Her sharp green eyes darted to the ground, glaring at nothing in particular as her lips moved in rapid, silent complaints.

"Better therapist," she muttered aloud, the words sharp as she adjusted her bag again. "Just give me the damn chance, and I'll prove it. One chance! Is that so hard?"

So consumed by her frustration, she didn't notice her surroundings—or the tall figure moving aimlessly toward the clinic's entrance.

Alex, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His gaze flicked up to the glowing sign above the clinic, his lips twisting into a doubtful frown. He hovered there, rocking on his heels, his breath visible in the cool night air.

"A hospital? For therapy?" he murmured to himself. His brow furrowed, and he glanced around, as though expecting some hidden doorway to lead to a more private solution. His fingers drummed nervously against the fabric of his jacket. "This doesn't feel right…"

He turned, scanning the street, when suddenly—impact.

The woman barreled straight into him, her bag colliding with his side and nearly toppling her over in the process. Alex stumbled back a step, his balance barely holding as his hands flew up instinctively.

"Oh—what the hell—?" he blurted out, his tone startled but not unkind.

The woman, however, was less composed. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and thudded to the ground, its contents spilling—a chaotic mix of notebooks, pens, and an empty coffee thermos.

"God—seriously?" she snapped, her voice tinged with both frustration and embarrassment. She crouched immediately, shoving items back into her bag with jerky, hurried movements.

Alex blinked, momentarily frozen, then crouched as well, reaching for a stray notebook. "I didn't see you coming," he said, his tone tentative as if testing the waters of her mood.

She snatched the notebook from his hand without looking at him, her movements sharp. "Maybe if people watched where they were standing…" she muttered, stuffing it into her bag.

Alex raised an eyebrow, a faint hint of irritation creeping into his expression. "You mean walking?"

Her head snapped up, her green eyes locking onto his for the first time. For a brief moment, she looked startled, as if realizing she'd been speaking aloud. Her face softened, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

"I—yeah. Walking," she muttered, looking away quickly as she zipped her bag closed with unnecessary force. "Sorry."

Alex let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair. "It's fine. Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentler now.

The woman straightened, brushing dust from her skirt with a nervous flick of her hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… distracted," she said, her gaze darting away again.

Alex studied her for a moment, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands fidgeted even as she tried to appear composed. "Rough day?" he asked, a faint hint of dry humor in his voice.

She let out a short, bitter laugh, adjusting the strap of her bag again. "Something like that." Her eyes flicked to the glowing clinic sign, and for the first time, her expression softened, though it was tinged with weariness. "Trying to be a better therapist, apparently."

Alex's eyebrows rose slightly, and he tilted his head. "You're a therapist?"

"Working on it," she replied, her tone clipped. She waved a hand vaguely toward the clinic behind her. "Just finished a lousy rotation here. Let's just say I'm not exactly anyone's favorite right now."

Alex hesitated, his gaze narrowing slightly as if trying to piece something together. Finally, he asked, "Do you… take clients?"

The woman blinked, caught off guard. She straightened a little, her hands gripping the strap of her bag as she studied him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "Not officially," she said slowly. "Why?"

Alex shifted on his feet, his eyes darting toward the clinic before returning to her. "I, uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck, his uncertainty palpable. "I might… need someone to talk to."

Her sharp green eyes lingered on him, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, she replied, "Well… maybe we can figure something out."