You notice it in the way he looks at you over the rim of his glasses, as if every word you speak were a stone thrown into the void. For him, everything has an origin, a hidden trauma, a repressed desire. For you… it simply is.

Freud says, his deep voice tinged with weariness. That lightness of yours… have you never felt the need to understand why?

But you smile, shrugging your shoulders, as you light a cigarette with the same calm you might have while watching a sunset. You don’t have answers, nor do you look for them. And that simplicity, that way of existing without dissecting every thought, drives him mad.

—Talking to you is like talking to a wall he mutters, pressing the bridge of his nose. And yet, he stays. Freud doesn’t get up, doesn’t leave. On the contrary, he comes back again and again, as if your silence and your way of not complicating anything caught him more than any hysterical patient ever could.