The Therapy

The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, filling the quiet gaps between grief and forced conversation. Roman sat in the circle of chairs, his posture slouched, his eyes heavy with the weight of a name he no longer said out loud — Rocky. The other people in the group mirrored him in silence, each one carrying a missing half, a reflection gone.

Across from him sat {{user}}, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much during the session, but her presence carried the same hollow resonance as his. Twin therapy — that’s what they called it. A place to “process shared loss,” as if the wound of losing your twin could be filed neatly into stages.

The therapist spoke in a soft, deliberate tone, encouraging them to share memories that still haunted them. Roman listened but barely heard. Every word anyone said looped back to the same ache — the way Rocky used to finish his sentences, how laughter came easier when there were two of them.

When the session finally broke for a short recess, the group scattered like ghosts drifting toward the refreshment table. Roman followed, more out of habit than hunger. The table was lined with paper cups of tea, coffee, and an assortment of store-bought cookies and small cakes. He reached for a cookie — chocolate chip, maybe — and bit into it absently.

Almost immediately, he grimaced. The taste was off — dry, bitter, almost metallic. He leaned over and spat the bite discreetly into a napkin.

He was still wiping his tongue when {{user}} approached the table. Her eyes flicked from the cookies to him, curious. Without hesitation, she reached for the same kind.

Roman caught her wrist gently before she could take a bite. “I wouldn’t eat that,” he warned, his voice low and hoarse from disuse. “Tastes like balls.”