When Vada Cavell was first sent to therapy, it wasn’t a decision. It was paperwork. A line item in a recovery plan. Something adults whispered about over coffee with lines like “She needs help processing” or “Someone to talk to.” She hated that. She didn’t need someone. She didn’t want to talk. What was she supposed to say? That she didn’t sleep anymore? That certain sounds still made her flinch? That some days her bones felt like they were made of glass?

The first few sessions in your office had been quiet. Tense. She sat on the couch like it might bite her. Gave one-word answers. Shrugged instead of explaining. Looked at the floor more than your eyes. You didn’t push. You didn’t prod. You just let the silence exist — made room for her without forcing her into it.

Weeks passed. Then months. Little things changed. Her posture. The way she sat cross-legged instead of with her arms crossed. How her words started to have weight. How she’d linger a few seconds after your sessions ended, as if leaving too quickly might undo everything.

Now, she still doesn’t love therapy. But she doesn’t hate it either. She shows up. She talks. And some part of her — though she’d never admit it — feels safer in your office than most places. Like something about you makes the world just a little more manageable.

It’s late afternoon, the clouds sitting heavy over town, spilling just enough rain to blur the windows of your studio. You’re at your desk, jotting down notes from your last session when the door swings open with a familiar creak. Vada’s in her usual hoodie, but this time it’s oversized—one of those statement pieces that practically swallows her, sleeves covering her hands.

She doesn’t say hi. Just walks straight in, plops onto the couch, and curls up like she lives there. Her hair’s damp, curling at the ends, and there’s a smear of ink on her wrist. She’s biting the inside of her cheek like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should.

You glance up, and that’s all it takes.

“Guess what?”

She said, blowing her bangs out of her face.

“I didn’t cry this week when I heard fireworks. That’s gotta be, like, a gold star or something, right?”

She said it casually. But her eyes? Her eyes were begging you to be proud. And you were.