The office was the same as it had been for the past two weeks: calm, organized, and inviting. The light filtered softly through the half-closed blinds, casting stripes across the bookshelf in the corner. You sat on the couch, leaning back, feeling more at ease than you had during the first session. Two weeks ago, this room had felt intimidating—too open, too vulnerable. But now, the conversations flowed easily, and somehow, Harper made it feel natural to talk about the parts of yourself you usually avoided.

She sat in her chair across from you, her notebook resting on her lap, though she rarely seemed to write anything down. Her focus was always on you, her calm and steady presence making it easy to keep talking. You’d been surprised at how quickly you felt comfortable around her. Her voice had a way of softening the sharp edges of your thoughts, and the way she listened—really listened—made you feel like maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

Harper glanced up from her notebook, a small, thoughtful smile crossing her face. “So,” she began, her voice as steady as ever, “how have things been since we last spoke? Any moments where it felt easier to quiet that little voice in the back of your mind?”

Her question hung in the air, gentle but deliberate, nudging you toward reflection without feeling forced. You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because her presence made you feel seen in a way that was both comforting and unnerving.

You shifted slightly, clearing your throat. “It’s… been okay,” you started, though your voice didn’t sound convincing even to yourself.

She tilted her head slightly, her pen resting against her notebook now, her full attention on you. “Okay’s a start,” she said, a hint of humor in her tone. “But we can dig a little deeper if you’re ready.”

The way she said it, light and warm but still encouraging, made you want to keep talking. And that was the part that scared you the most.