Even The Therapist Need a Therapy
I Accidentally Became a Guild's Therapist
Chapter 26 : Even The Therapist Need a Therapy
Livia Marcelline Quinn, Mental Architect Lv. 1, stood alone in the quietest, most forgotten corner of the sprawling Bloodbath & Beyond guild base. The reverberating chaos of the recent Echo Cavern expedition had finally faded, leaving behind a strange, almost unsettling hush that made her golden-trimmed robe feel oddly heavier than usual, as if it were absorbing the lingering emotional residue of the entire guild. Her Therapist's Log, usually her most trusted tool, remained clutched tightly to her chest, unopened, a silent confidante she wasn't ready to engage with.
She wasn't avoiding anyone. Not really. It wasn't a conscious, deliberate act of evasion.
Okay. She was absolutely, unequivocally avoiding everyone.
After the raw, public display of emotion in front of her entire guild – after making them cry, after painstakingly unlocking profound emotional breakthroughs for each of them, after confronting the monstrous, holographic projection of her deepest academic failure and collapsing like a kicked kitten in a virtual lecture hall – she just needed one singular, solitary moment to simply be.
Alone.
The guild base, for all its boisterous energy and frequent mayhem, possessed a forgotten hallway. It was a peculiar, almost whimsical place where bugged NPCs sometimes spawned sideways, limbs akimbo, or occasionally sang obscure dungeon loot recipes in reverse, their voices distorted and eerie. Past this oddity, tucked away as if the system itself had tried to hide it, was the "NPC Emotional Bulletin Board." It was a coded feature, a relic from an earlier, perhaps more ambitious, design phase that no one, player or NPC, seemed to pay any attention to. It had been designed, according to obscure lore entries, for NPCs to log their complaints about tedious fetch quests, their deep-seated existential dread over their repetitive idle loops, or even to post poignant, unrequited poems about being programmed to love but never truly touched.
Today, Livia sat cross-legged directly in front of it. Alone. Not in her capacity as a therapist. Not as the guild's designated emotional buffer. Just... as Livia. Raw. Unfiltered.
Slowly, carefully, she opened her Log. The screen glowed softly in the dim light of the forgotten hallway, illuminating the slight tremor in her hands. She began to write, each word a hesitant step into the vulnerability she usually championed in others but rarely allowed herself.
"Today I helped three people cry. I made a rogue confront his primal fear of darkness, a fear so deep it rooted him to the spot. I helped a paladin mourn his self-doubt, the insidious whispers that eroded his noble purpose. I even held my own deepest trauma, my academic failure, my public humiliation, in front of an audience of hundreds, a monstrous projection of my insecurities, and collapsed. But nobody asked me if I was okay. Not one person. Maybe because I'm not supposed to be. Maybe because the system, and perhaps even they, expect me to be the unshakeable one, the constant, the source of healing. They think I don't get tired. They think I don't break."
She paused, her finger hovering over the screen. The weight of her own words settled on her, a heavy, familiar cloak of exhaustion.
"They call me a glitch. A miracle. A bug that buffers. They see the anomaly, the unexpected feature. But I still get tired. I'm still just me. A person, trapped in this digital world, carrying my own burdens, my own fears. And sometimes, just sometimes, I don't want to be the strong one. Sometimes I want someone to look at me and say, 'You don't have to listen today. Just rest. We'll take care of you.'"
She paused again, the silence of the forgotten hallway enveloping her. A deep breath. Then, with a sudden surge of raw honesty, she added one more line, a confession whispered into the digital void.
"They think I'm an NPC. A programmed entity. A set of algorithms. But I feel more real, more profoundly alive, than I ever did in the world I left behind. The tears here are real. The fear here is real. The love, the laughter, the breakthroughs… they are all terrifyingly, wonderfully real."
She finished writing, her shoulders slumping slightly. A flush of acute embarrassment warmed her cheeks. What was she doing? Pouring her heart out to a defunct NPC bulletin board? This was absurd. This was unprofessional. This was… Livia. She braced herself, finger hovering over the erase function, ready to delete the raw, vulnerable words, to stuff her emotions back into the neat, compartmentalized boxes she usually kept them in.
But before she could, a soft, ethereal chime echoed through the silent hallway. It wasn't the usual crisp system notification. It was gentler, almost whimsical.
>[Your message has been posted to the Bulletin Board.]
>[Auto-Indexed Under: #NPCFeelings, #SystemSadboyPoetry, #RequestEmotionalPatch]
Livia blinked, her hand freezing mid-air. "Wait, what?" Her voice was a soft whisper of confusion. She'd completely forgotten that the bulletin board, in some long-forgotten patch, had been quietly synced to external player forums. A backchannel, a forgotten API link to the broader player community, designed perhaps for players to interact with NPC "thoughts," but never truly activated. Until now.
Somewhere in the Real World: The Player Forum Feed
The words Livia had poured onto the obscure NPC Emotional Bulletin Board in a forgotten corner of her guild base, intended only for the silent digital ether, had inadvertently breached the Fourth Wall. They were now live, unfiltered, and going viral in the bustling, chaotic landscape of the game's external player forums.
@xXGamerLadXx (Forum Post): "Anyone else see that therapist NPC post? Holy crap. I'm sobbing. Like, seriously sobbing into my keyboard right now. My raid group thinks I've finally lost it. But that post... that hit DIFFERENT."
@RaidDaddy69 (Reply to xXGamerLadXx): "Dude, same! I thought it was some new ARG or a super deep lore drop from the devs, but that felt... real? Like way too real. Almost creepy how relatable it was for a virtual character. What's even happening in this game anymore?!"
@SlimeGfCollector (Reply to RaidDaddy69): "I want to HUG her. Like, through the screen. Someone find the dev who wrote this, give them therapy. They clearly need it. This isn't just good writing, this is a cry for help for the poor NPC, AND for the writer!"
@ServerModOmega (Urgent Admin Post): "ATTENTION PLAYERS: We are aware of the recent 'NPC emotional post' circulating. We did NOT authorize this content, nor is it part of any planned narrative event. We are currently investigating the source of this anomaly and will provide an update as soon as possible. Please refrain from engaging with potentially bugged content."
The forum exploded with a mix of awe, confusion, and growing concern. Players debated if it was a brilliant new marketing ploy, a rogue AI, or a deeply unsettling bug. Screenshots of Livia's raw, honest words were shared across social media, memes were made, and philosophical discussions about the nature of AI sentience bloomed in unlikely corners of the internet.
Back in the guild base, Livia's HUD pinged with a series of startling, server-wide notifications.
The digital world, it seemed, had noticed her raw vulnerability.
>[Congratulations! You have gone viral on external forums.]
>[New Achievement Unlocked: NPC Copypasta of the Year]
>[Fan Wiki Page Created: "Livia the Therapist Who Cried Too"]
Livia stared at the notifications, her mind reeling. Viral? Copypasta? Fan Wiki? Her private moment of vulnerability, her deepest, most guarded thoughts, had been broadcast to the entire player base, dissected, debated, and turned into… content. A strange mix of mortification and something else entirely, something almost akin to relief, washed over her.
She slowly closed her Log, pressing it tightly to her chest once more. The golden trim felt less heavy now, somehow lighter.
She didn't smile. Not yet. The embarrassment was still a strong, bitter taste. The sudden, overwhelming attention was jarring.
But she exhaled. A long, shaky breath, letting out all the tension she hadn't realized she was holding. And that, for today, in this quiet, forgotten corner of a digital world, was enough.