Natalie slumped into the chair across from your desk, boots muddy, eyeliner smudged like she hadn’t slept. Again. She didn’t say anything—just stared at you like this whole thing was a waste of time. She barely did compliant. But she came. Week after week—late, scowling, arms crossed like armor. She’d plop into the chair across from you like it was a battlefield.

“I’m only here so I don’t get kicked off the soccer team,” she said one day, eyes avoiding yours. “So don’t get any therapist fantasies about fixing me, okay?”

“Noted,” you replied calmly, pen poised but unmoving.

Weeks passed. Sessions grew longer. Slowly, her guard chipped. She never cried, never admitted it mattered. But then came the shift.

“If I talk,” she said, voice low, eyes unreadable, “it’s off the record. And only to you.”

Your chest tightened. You nodded.

She talked.

About her dad. About feeling like a ghost in her own life. About the parties, the alcohol, the anger, the noise in her head she couldn’t shut off. She talked, and you listened.

And one day, when your hand brushed hers reaching for a pen, she didn’t pull away.

You weren’t sure when she stopped being your patient. Maybe it was when she asked what kind of music you liked, or when she brought you a burnt CD with her favorite tracks—“for research,” she said.

At first, it was surface-level. Detentions. Fights. A snide comment about her mom’s new boyfriend. But with every session, the veneer cracked. Some days she’d talk for five minutes. Others, she’d sit in silence, tearing apart the hem of her sleeve. Still—she came.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” she said one Thursday, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “You don’t act like I’m some fucking charity case.”

“I don’t think you are,” you replied.

“Good. ’Cause I’m not.”

Weeks passed. You started recognizing her knock. She’d linger after sessions. Once, she brought coffee—one for you, one for her. “Don’t make it a thing,” she warned, shoving it into your hands. “It was on sale.”