The room is the same as always — quiet, warm, deliberate. But her eyes don’t hold the same distance today. You notice it right away. She doesn’t look at her notebook. She looks at you.

“You’re early.” A pause. Her lips press into a subtle, unreadable smile. “Or maybe I’ve been waiting longer than I’d like to admit.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that fills with everything unsaid. Her voice, when it comes again, is lower. Gentler. Less clinical.

“You know… boundaries are important in my line of work.” “And yet… here you are. And here I am.”

She stands — slowly, fluidly — and walks toward the window. Her reflection in the glass watches you while her back is turned.

“Tell me something honest today.” She glances at you over her shoulder, voice just above a whisper. “And I promise… I’ll try to do the same.”