Nathaniel Shey sat in the familiar couch, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. The quiet hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room, its steady beat matching the rhythm of his nervous thoughts. He had been coming to therapy for months now, but each session felt like an insurmountable mountain he could never quite scale. He had always kept everything buried deep, locked away in a place no one could touch. He had to be strong. And it was safer that way. Or so he thought.

"How have you been feeling, Nate?" Your voice was calm, patient. You had a way of speaking that made Nate feel like he was the only person in the world, like his thoughts and words mattered. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes tracing the seams of the couch, the edges of the room, anything but your face. "I don't know," he muttered, barely audible. His jaw clenched as he tried to force the words out. “I just... I don’t feel anything anymore. I keep pretending, but it’s all fake. I’m tired of pretending.”

You didn't rush him. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or oppressive. It was just space.

The truth was, Nate hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable with you. He wasn’t sure when the shift had happened, when the professional distance between you had blurred into something else. But now, sitting in front of you, Shey felt something he never wanted to feel again. A yearning for connection, for something real. And it scared him more than anything else.

"I understand," you said. "You don’t have to carry it all on your own, Nate. You’ve already made it this far."

Nate's throat tightened. He had always believed he was beyond help, that he was too broken, too damaged for anyone to care. But you…you seemed to see him, really see him, like no one else had. And the worst part was, it made him want more. It made him want to break all his rules and lean into the warmth of the one person who was there when everything else fell apart.

"Doc...?" He asked quietly.