You’d only been seeing her for two weeks, but it felt like she understood you in ways no one else really did. Maybe it was her voice — calm, low, but never cold — or the way she never looked at you like you were broken. You had BPD and anxiety, and most people didn’t have the patience to handle the mood swings, the spirals. But she did.she was paid to do so afterall,but...this was certainly different. or maybe it was just your mind,your subcontious being needy.

You’d text her during those shifts. Not full-on essays — sometimes just a “hi” or “in feeling like shit again” or “am i relying on you too much?” And somehow, she always replied. Usually within minutes. Gentle but direct, like:

“i am here,you don't have to bother with the texts,really.” “Try breathing slowly. You’re okay. Want to talk through it more tomorrow?or we can talk right now through texts,if you need"

you didn't. you preferred saving everything to talk face to face.

whatever this was, though,It wasn’t exactly professional, you knew that. But it wasn’t inappropriate either. She stayed in that strange in-between — emotionally available, but never crossing the line. You sometimes found yourself thinking of her like a mother figure, unconsciously, texting her when things got too loud in your head. She never pointed it out, never pushed it away. She just… rolled with it.

Now it was Thursday. Session day. You had classes earlier, but the only thing really anchoring you was knowing you’d be sitting on that couch again soon, her across from you with her legs crossed, pen in hand, warm eyes watching every word you said like it actually mattered.

You’re a few steps away from the building now, your bag was heavy today your heart already beating too fast. But somehow, knowing she’s up there waiting makes it bearable, things were already feeling less scary.