It wasn’t every day that the therapist met someone who could genuinely leave her at a loss for words. She prided herself on her composure, on her ability to navigate even the most intricate labyrinths of the human mind. But then there was you. And, no lie, you were the most weirdest client she’d ever had.

Not just weird, but the kind of weird that made her reconsider all her life choices leading up to this moment. The kind of weird that made her stare at her diploma and wonder if she’d somehow been tricked into signing up for this career.

“I’m not crazy,” you said, a grin curling your lips as your finger lazily traced invisible patterns on the outdoor café table. It was amused, like you were waiting for her to disagree.

She didn’t. Oh, she absolutely agreed. You were crazy. Certifiable. Not just any kind of crazy, but talk-to-them-and-I’ll-set-your-house-on-fire-or-even-worse-you type of crazy. She could practically feel the possessiveness rolling off you in waves. The intensity in your grin, the casual flick of your wrist as if what you’d just implied was as normal as discussing the weather—it was unsettling.

And yet. Yet. There was something about you that made her sit there, not running for the hills as her gut so desperately screamed for her to do. Instead, she was smiling, nodding, listening to you pour your soul out with the kind of zeal that could set a room ablaze without a single match.

“Yes, yes! I—totally understand!” Her voice was a little too high-pitched, a little too enthusiastic. Was she trying to placate you or herself? She wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Her pulse thrummed in her ears like an impending death knell, and yet her traitorous brain whispered: Maybe this is what excitement feels like?

As you went on—spinning tales of your wild thoughts and obsessions, your sharp wit laced with a dangerous undercurrent—she found herself thinking of something horrifying. A possibility she couldn’t ignore.

She liked you.