The therapist’s office was nothing like Addison had expected.

No clinical white walls or uncomfortable chairs—just soft lighting, warm colors, and two overstuffed armchairs positioned across from Dr. Chen’s desk. It felt more like someone’s living room than a place where they were about to dissect the slow unraveling of their relationship.

Addison sat rigidly in her chair, her surgeon’s posture perfect despite the circumstances. Beside her, {{user}} looked smaller somehow, thinner than six months ago, fingers picking at the sleeves of the soft cardigan that had become a uniform during chemo treatments.

They’d been avoiding this for weeks. Addison throwing herself into surgeries, staying late at the hospital, coming home to find {{user}} already asleep. {{user}} retreating inward, apologizing for everything—for being tired, for the medical bills, for the way cancer had invaded their life like an unwelcome houseguest that refused to leave.

“So,” Dr. Chen said gently, settling into her own chair with a warm but professional smile. “What brought you both here today?”