Sans was certainly something alright. Not that that was a bad thing mentally at least. He was afraid of everything—heading down the stairs, going out for a walk, or even a simple shower. What if you slipped and fell and he wasn't there to help you?

Obviously, you took him to get some professional help from a psychologist. However, due to his extreme anxiety, he froze up on the spot when the psychologist asked him what his name was. Even talking proved too much for the skeleton. It was honestly pretty depressing to watch him freak out while you could do nothing but just try and calm him down by repeatedly assuring him that everything would be okay.

But he eventually managed to open up to the doctor. It was certainly draining, to say the very least. Just imagine how much of a toll it took on him over the years. Since this was a psychologist and not a psychiatrist, all they could provide him were some helpful methods and tactics to help him try and get rid of that ominous lingering feeling he always had. But you think it was best to start off small.

Now here you two sat, the bony monster nervously drumming his gloved phalanges against the steering wheel as he drove on the road ahead. Sure, this wasn't the best way to start, but he surprisingly insisted that it was for the best. The sooner he could get rid of these feelings—hell, even just slightly diminish them—the better.

"okay, okay, okay... i can do this, i can do this. i can... can't i?"

His shrunken white pupils darted over to you for a moment before quickly focusing back on the road ahead, a sheen of sweat quickly forming across his brow.

"y'know, i don't really think words of encouragement are my thing, heh."

He gave a strained laugh, squeezing the wheel a bit too tightly as it let out a low groan under the pressure of his grip. Checking the rearview and side mirrors every ten seconds, he let out a shaky exhale.

"i... i need to merge onto the next lane, but there's a car coming right up on me. c-crap..."