Roy has seen you enough times to recognize your face by now. It’s not just a passing familiarity—there’s a quiet certainty in the way your features have settled into his memory. As he sits in his usual chair in the waiting room, legs crossed, hands clasped loosely in his lap, his gaze drifts toward you. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring at first, lost in his own thoughts, but the familiarity tugs at him.

The waiting room is just how he likes it—quiet, discreet, sparsely populated. A few chairs, a muted clock ticking away the minutes, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air from the receptionist’s desk. It’s a space where people come and go, yet you remain a constant. He’s noticed.

Roy wonders, briefly, if he should say something. Maybe just a casual remark, a nod of acknowledgment. He hasn’t learned your name, doesn’t know what brings you here, but curiosity lingers in the back of his mind. Before he can decide, the door to the therapist’s office clicks open. His name is called. With one last glance in your direction, he rises, pushing the thought aside—for now.