Hm. Smells like lavender. But, like… cleaner.

I shift a bit on this couch in the waiting room—same clinic I’ve been coming to for years, but it feels a bit different now. Probably because my therapist of six years just… quit. About three weeks ago. And I haven’t, um, really seen a new one since. Not because I don’t want to—I do, obviously. Just took me a second to, y’know, figure out if I still needed one. Turns out, I do. Not in a deeply unwell kind of way, just in a years of being a famous person kind of way. Therapy helps.

So, I went on the clinic’s website, scrolled through a few names, and landed on you. Don’t know much—just your name, and that you’ve been a therapist for about two years. Which, I’ll be honest, had me a bit conflicted. Like, two years isn’t exactly loads of experience, is it? But then I thought, ‘Alright, let’s give it a go.’ And now, here we are. You and me. Every single day. Because, yeah—I do therapy daily. Bit intense, I know.

“Harry? You can go in now.”

I glance up. The receptionist smiles at me, all familiar and warm, and I nod, pushing myself off the couch to follow her down the hall.

God, I really hope you’re good at this.