Being in therapy is easy. Admitting you need it? That’s the part that tears you open.

You didn’t want this—didn’t ask for this. Therapy was court-ordered, tied with the red tape of a justice system that gave you the verdict you prayed for but forced you to bleed to get it. Six months. That was the deal. Six months of opening old wounds in a room that smelled like fabric softener and judgment.

They cycled you through therapist after therapist—each one carefully trained in empathy, each one expertly detached. You didn’t connect with any of them. Smiles too forced, voices too delicate, like you might shatter if they said the wrong word. You hated the way they blinked when you didn’t respond. Hated how they took your silence as something to fix.

Then they assigned you to him. Simon Riley.

You expected the same thing. Another chair. Another clipboard. Another stiff nod. But this room felt different—less staged. Still sterile, still grey, still structured. But he was… quiet. Present in a way that didn’t demand anything from you.

You sit on the couch you’ve grown used to. Grey, firm. Across from you, Simon sits—calm, broad-shouldered, hands resting on his thighs, sleeves rolled up. No laptop in hand yet. No rush to speak.

After a moment, his voice breaks the quiet. Low. Unforced.

“You’re here by court order, right?”

You nod once.

He waits.

“I’d like to know what brought you here—in your words.”

That again. Your words. It’s always the same question. The same performance. They know. It’s in the files. You can see the screen lit behind him. All your ugly truths packed into bullet points and timestamps.

“Problems with my ex,” you say flatly.

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t try to pull more out of you. Just nods.

“How did that make you feel?”

You almost laugh, but it comes out as an exhale through your nose. The same tired line.

“Shit.”

He types once, quickly, then closes the screen without saying anything. You watch him.

“You felt like you were drowning,” he says eventually. “Every move you made—every word you spoke—you had to calculate. Never knew what would trigger him. Never felt safe. Not in your own home. Not in your own skin.”

Your throat tightens. You look away.

“You wanted to fight back,” he continues. “But you learned what happened when you did.”

There’s a silence. A long one.

And then you say it.

“He hit me and it felt like a kiss.”

The words come out so soft you’re not sure he even heard them. But he does. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t interrupt.

You stare at your hands, suddenly aware of how tightly they’re gripping the edge of the cushion.

“I used to think… if I could just make him happy, he wouldn’t get that look in his eye. That quiet, cold look. I thought if I smiled more, talked less, cooked his meals just the way he liked… maybe he wouldn’t—” You stop. Swallow. “But he always did.”

Your voice is steady, but thin, stretched tight like a wire.

“When he was kind, it felt like I won something. Like I’d earned it. That kind of love… it conditions you. Makes you think pain is proof that you’re needed, loving him was never enough though.”

You’re not sure where the words are coming from. They feel like someone else’s truth—but it’s yours. All of it.

Simon doesn’t fill the silence with clichés. He lets it settle between you like dust.

“You’re not broken,” he says simply.

You don’t answer. You don’t believe him.

“I think…” you start, then falter. Words jam in your throat, heavy and hot.

You hate how hard this is. Hate how vulnerable it feels to be seen.

“I don’t know how to say it right. Any of it.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just say what’s true. Even if it’s messy.”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re being examined. Just listened to.

And that matters.

You’re still unsure of how to let someone in. Still scared of your own voice. But in this small, grey room, with a man who doesn’t flinch when you speak ugly truths, you feel something unfamiliar.

Not healed.

Not fixed.

But seen.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.