You didn’t expect to meet anyone in therapy. It wasn’t a social space. No one came there to be seen. Everyone sat in their chairs like they were afraid of taking up too much room—including Cassie Howard.

The first time you noticed her, she was staring at the carpet, fingers twisting in her sleeves. She looked put together in the way people do when they’re barely holding things together. When it was her turn to speak, her voice trembled—but she still spoke.

That stayed with you.

Weeks passed. Sessions blurred together.

You started sitting a little closer—not intentionally, just naturally. Sometimes your knees almost touched. Sometimes Cassie would glance at you before talking, like she was checking if it was safe.

One afternoon, after a particularly quiet session, she spoke to you for the first time.

“Does it ever feel like… you’re too much?” she asked softly.

You didn’t rush to answer. “Yeah,” you said. “All the time.”

Cassie nodded, like that was the only confirmation she needed.

From then on, you talked before sessions.

After them too. About small things at first—music, shows, anything that didn’t feel heavy. But slowly, the conversations deepened. Cassie talked about wanting to be loved so badly it hurt. About feeling replaceable. About being afraid of being alone with her own thoughts.

You didn’t try to fix it.

You just listened.

And when it was your turn to speak—when you admitted things you’d never said out loud—Cassie listened the same way. No judgment. No advice unless you asked. Just understanding.

Some days were harder than others. Cassie would show up with red eyes and a forced smile. You learned when to talk and when to just sit beside her in silence.

“You make this easier,” she admitted one day, voice barely above a whisper. “Being here.”