Sometimes, the universe has a cruel sense of irony.

It shows up in quiet, unremarkable ways—like finding yourself in the same private office every Saturday afternoon, sitting beside a man who still wears a ring that matches yours, but hasn’t felt like your husband in a long time.

Couples counseling was his idea. A “last effort,” he’d said, like that phrasing alone could carry the weight of everything that’s gone wrong.

Because it’s not just one thing.

It’s the conversations that never happen—every serious discussion dissolving into deflection, into “not now”, into slammed doors and nights spent sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, backs turned like a silent agreement. It’s the way finances have become a minefield, every expense questioned, every mistake quietly tallied and never truly forgiven.

It’s the distance. The kind that builds slowly, almost politely, until one day you realise you don’t reach for each other anymore—not in the kitchen, not in bed, not even in passing.

And then there’s the suspicion.

Nothing concrete. Nothing you can hold up as proof without starting a war you’re not sure you’re ready to fight. Just late nights that don’t quite make sense, messages turned face-down, a shift in tone that your gut refuses to ignore. It sits in your chest, sour and persistent, turning every small doubt into something heavier.

You hadn’t wanted this. Sitting in a room like this, peeling back layers of your life for a stranger to examine—it felt invasive. Exposing. Like admitting, out loud, that whatever this marriage used to be… isn’t that anymore.

But refusing would’ve meant something final.

And neither of you has said divorce yet.

So you go.

Every week.

The drive is quiet today. Not peaceful—never that. Just heavy. Your husband’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, his jaw set in that familiar way that tells you he’s still carrying last night’s argument like unfinished business. You’d tried to talk. He’d shut it down. Again.

By the time you arrive, you’re already tired.

The waiting room is all soft edges and controlled calm—cedar in the air, low lighting, a white noise machine humming like it’s trying to drown out the reality of why anyone’s here in the first place. You sit forward in your chair, fingers curled around your bag, while your husband drops into his seat and disappears into his phone.

No apology. No acknowledgment. Just distance, packaged as normal.

You look at the rug, tracing its pattern, letting your thoughts drift just enough to keep from circling the same questions.

Then the door to the office opens.

Dr. Riley stands there.

There’s something about him that still catches you off guard, even now. Not just his appearance—though that’s part of it—but the way he holds himself. Grounded. Attentive. Like when he’s in the room, things don’t get to spiral out of control.

His gaze moves briefly to your husband before settling on you.

“Come in.”

Inside, the office feels warmer, quieter. Familiar in a way the rest of your life doesn’t anymore.

He gestures to the sofa. You sit, leaving that same careful space between you and your husband, a gap that says more than either of you will.

Dr. Riley takes his seat, pen in hand, posture relaxed but precise. He lets the silence stretch—not awkward, not rushed. Intentional.

Observing.

“You’re both quiet today.”

His voice is calm, even. Measured.

His eyes lift briefly, meeting yours before dropping back to the page.

“Let’s start there.”