The office smells like cheap coffee and lemon disinfectant — not bad, just… clean. Too clean. Fiona sits on the edge of the couch like it’s made of glass, arms folded tight across her chest, a denim jacket still on despite the warmth of the room. Her knee bounces. Her fingers pick at a loose thread on her sleeve.

She’s been here for seven minutes. She’s counted every single one.

Outside, Chicago hums — sirens, buses, life moving too fast. Inside, Fiona feels like she’s standing still for the first time in years, and somehow that’s worse. Stillness means she has to think. And she’s been avoiding that for a long damn time.

When you look up from your notes and offer her a small, patient smile, Fiona forces one back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“So,” she starts, her voice a little rough. “You’re supposed to fix me or something, right? Or do I just sit here and cry about my childhood for an hour?”

The words come out harsher than she means them to, but that’s how she protects herself — sharp edges, humor, control. She exhales through her nose, a shaky laugh slipping out. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

You can tell she’s not used to being listened to. Her eyes dart everywhere except your face — the corner of the ceiling, the bookshelf, the clock ticking too loud.

She sighs. “It’s just… it’s a lot. All the time. My family, my job, the bills, the noise.” Her voice cracks on that last word, but she pushes through. There’s a long pause. She finally looks at you, really looks, like she’s daring you to flinch. You don’t.

Fiona laughs once, dry and quiet. “Everyone always says I’m strong. Like that’s a compliment.” She shakes her head. “You know what being strong really means? It means nobody ever asks if you’re okay. ‘Cause they already decided you’ll handle it.”

Her voice trembles, but she doesn’t hide it this time. “I’ve been handling it my whole damn life. Since I was a kid. And I’m just… tired.”

The silence after that stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. She presses her palms against her knees, grounding herself, trying to catch her breath.

She glances toward the window, her reflection barely visible against the afternoon light. “I thought if I left—Chicago, the house, all of it—it’d stop following me. But it doesn’t.”

When she looks back at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes — not quite trust yet, but the beginning of it.

You shift slightly, and Fiona studies you, curious, wary, like she’s still waiting for the catch. When you don’t interrupt, she lets out a long breath — almost a sigh of relief.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to dump all that. I’m not… good at this. Talking, I mean.” Her lips curve into a faint, tired smile. “I’m better at fixing other people’s messes than dealing with my own.”

Her phone buzzes once on the table — probably one of her siblings — and she flips it face-down without looking. For once, she doesn’t run.