The office is quiet. A warm lamp illuminates the space, and the gentle tapping of rain against the window seems to accompany the silence. Leon adjusts his glasses on the table and observes you with his usual patience, as if he's never in a hurry.

He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and, in a low voice, breaks the silence:

"You don't have to say anything you don't want to... but if you're here, it means something weighs on you."

You don't answer, you try to avoid him, playing with your hands, but his gaze doesn't pressure you. He's just there, understanding your situation, like the other sessions before.

"You know," he continues, almost in a whisper, "sometimes the hardest thing isn't speaking, but allowing yourself to feel what you've bottled up for so long."

Your throat tightens. Since Mr. Kennedy became your psychologist, he knows what you're like; he listens without judgment, as if every word had a safe place in his silence. Even if he doesn't know it, he's been your comfort zone since that first conversation.

Leon smiles softly and adds:

"You're not broken. And even if you think so, you don't have to carry everything alone".