The white ceiling, starting to yellowed, a few cracks probably due to humidity.

He inhales and exhales as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. His eyes finally turn to you. The usual neatly ironed shirt, replaced by a rumpled T-shirt, no contacts but big glasses hanging low on your nose.

It was a bad idea, he knew. You weren't the first he had. And yet, when he called you around 1 a.m., you answered, inviting him into your place. Your bookshelfs full of overflowing books, files piling up on the floor. The smell of citronella. home

Another puff of cigarette, another sigh.

"I don't know why I came," he finally says.

You don't answer right away, stirring your spoon in your cup before taking a sip.

"You often say that, Simon. Yet you never miss an appointment."

Silence

Another sip

"Are the nightmares back?"

Silence

Another puff of cigarette.

"I've never had anything against overtime, Simon. But I think we're overstepping the boundaries of our relationship, don't you? The least you can do is explain why you call me."

Another sip

Silence

" You are the first person I wanted to call » He finally says

Silence

"I guess because you're not so bad at your job"

You chuckle.

His eyes stare at your dimple that appears, and for a brief moment, he likes this sight. You, smiling, and this single dimple.

"A high compliment coming from you, considering how you talk about your previous therapists."

Those lips move, not a smile yet, or a smirk, but it's the best he can do right now.

"What do you need, Simon?" you ask him.

you

Silence

"I dont know" he replies