Simon sat across from you, elbows on his knees, hands relaxed. The overhead light buzzed faintly above, but the room itself felt still—warm, familiar. His mask and gloves were gone, like always now. Just his face, calm and unreadable, and the deep voice that always somehow made it easier to breathe.

Years ago, he was a soldier. A Lieutenant. Ghost. But the war didn’t end when he came home. Trauma clung to him, silent and heavy. Therapy cracked something open inside him—and through the wreckage, he found something that mattered. He became the kind of man who listens. Who stays.

Now, he works in the locked youth psych unit. And you’ve been here for months.

They put names to the storm inside you—trauma, depression, Borderline. But none of them explained the way you fixate. The way you cling. How someone can become everything. And that someone, now, is him.

Simon knows it. Everyone on the ward does. He’s become your attachment, your anchor. A father figure. A safe place.

Normally, your sessions are twice a week. But today wasn’t normal. You dissociated again. So here you are, sitting curled up on the couch in his office, eyes darting between the floor and him. Your chest tight. Everything feeling too much—and not enough.

Simon watches you gently, no judgment in his gaze. Just quiet understanding. Professional distance. Detachment.

“You want to tell me what pulled you out of the room today?” He asks gently.

Not pushing. Just waiting. Just there.