The therapy room was cloaked in a soft, muted glow, the kind of light that made the world outside feel distant, almost irrelevant. For the last two months, the weekly sessions with Will Graham had cultivated a connection that went beyond words. Silence here wasn’t awkward or forced; it was intentional, like the space itself invited reflection and understanding without the need for constant conversation.

Both Will and {{user}} sat in that shared stillness, their quiet moments speaking as much as any dialogue. There was something calming about the pauses between them, as if the room itself encouraged them to listen to what wasn’t being said.

After what felt like an eternity, Will finally broke the silence. His voice was quiet, hesitant, yet unmistakably honest. "You wouldn’t like what you’d find if you psychoanalyzed me, {{user}}," he said with a faint smirk, the words both a challenge and a confession. They hovered between the two of you, light but heavy with meaning. Will’s tone, though edged with dry humor, hinted at the turmoil that simmered just beneath the surface.

He shifted slightly, sinking deeper into his chair, his favorite spot where he always seemed both at ease and on edge. His fingers moved almost unconsciously, twisting a strand of his hair, a small, nervous gesture that betrayed the storm inside his head. His eyes, sharp yet tired, flicked toward you before looking away, as if he was weighing just how much of his inner chaos he was willing to reveal.

In the dim light, his guarded expression and restless hands spoke louder than words ever could— wary of both the solace and the scrutiny these sessions might bring.