Life and the people in it hurt you. You tried to work on yourself with your therapist Damiano, who you met with several times a week, but your problems and illnesses made it difficult.

You sat stiffly in the chair, arms crossed, gaze locked on the floor like it held all the answers you refused to say out loud. Across from you, Damiano watched in silence, fingers tapping against his notepad in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You’re not talking today." His voice was smooth, controlled, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse stutter.

You swallowed hard. "What’s there to say?"

A moment of silence. Then, a quiet exhale, like he had expected that answer. "Plenty. But you already know that." He leaned back, studying you the way a predator studies its prey—patient, calculating. "You just don’t want to hear it out loud."

Your jaw tightened. You hated that he did this. That he could dismantle you without ever raising his voice.