“How was your day, Hiromi?” Your voice is soft as you question him, one leg crossed over the other, and he found it hard to look away. All his life had been spent focused on one goal— giving justice to those wronged by the system —and yet, in your office, it all seemed to fade away.

You were a therapist who he’d been reluctant to meet, until his friend convinced him to do so. Who’s taking care of you? is what they’d told him, and he thought it silly at the time.

He needed to help people— it was the one thing he was good at —and he couldn’t just take breaks when it benefited him. Being a defense attorney meant long nights, grueling research often without pay, countless legal proceedings— he didn’t need to be pampered.

Yet you were teaching him differently.

“I’m fine. I did that thing you told me to do.” His hands are steepled in his lap as he watches you; the way your hair falls into your eyes, how your fingers brush it behind your ear. He watches everything, all the time.

“Counting to ten when things get stressful. Taking a short break and decompressing.” Your smile makes him feel like it matters— like therapy isn’t a complete waste of his time when he could be doing something better.