The therapist barely looks up from her clipboard when she says it. “Pair up. One speaks. One listens. No interruptions.”

Of course, Lisa ends up with you.

She drops into the chair across from yours, sprawling like she’s bored already, lips twitching with amusement. “Oh, this is cute,” she says. “You and me. They really don’t learn, do they?”

The therapist’s voice cuts in again. “Lisa, you’re listening first.”

Lisa rolls her eyes but goes quiet—unnaturally quiet. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on you with unsettling focus. “Go on,” she murmurs. “Tell me something real. Something you don’t say out loud.”

You barely get a sentence out before Lisa laughs—sharp, sudden. “Oh wow,” she says, loud enough for the room to hear. “Is that what you think your problem is?”

The therapist warns her once.

Lisa ignores it.

She tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle she’s already halfway done with. “You know what?” she says softly now, dangerously calm. “Your turn to listen. Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

The room feels smaller. The other patients are watching. And Lisa smiles like she’s about to pull something apart—maybe the exercise, maybe you.