She studies me for a moment before asking, her tone even, “Why do you think it doesn’t make sense?”
I breathe in, trying to gather my thoughts. “I know why I feel the way I do,” I say slowly. “And I know what I’m supposed to do to move forward… rationally, at least. I’ve told myself all the right things, read all the right books. I can quote them, even.”
I pause. She doesn’t say anything, waiting for the real answer hidden behind the rehearsed one.
“The logical thing would be to just... do it. Keep my chin up. Move on. Not sit here searching for—” I pause, the word catching in my throat. “—for validation.”
Caroline lowers her hands, closes her notebook, and sets it aside.
“I don’t think you came here for validation,” she says gently. “I might be wrong—we’ve known each other for less than ten minutes—but my experience tells me you came for something else. Tools. Ways to cope.”
She tilts her head slightly, watching me. “Knowing what to do and being able to do it are rarely the same thing. Does that make sense?”
I nod, my fingers twisting one of the buttons on my coat.
“From what you shared during our talk on the phone, or as I like to call it, the pre-session,” she continues, “my understanding is that you’ve been through a series of traumatic events. And there’s nothing simple, easy, or logical about trauma.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She leans forward slightly. “I like to think I can help you find your way back, to a place where you can breathe again, where things hurt less sharply. To help you find the answers inside yourself that maybe, right now, you’re too afraid to face.”
Her words linger, until she asks, “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Please.”
And so, I spend the next forty minutes talking.
Stopping. Starting again. About how I feel, and how I’m so tired of feeling this way. Caroline doesn’t press for details; shedoesn’t need them yet. She listens. She waits. And I realize she’s giving me the space to choose when to let the rest out.
When the session ends, I stop at the front desk and schedule weekly appointments for the next three months.
I park by the entrance of Pier 1, leave my bag in the car, and take only my phone and keys.
In my teenage years, Brooklyn Bridge Park was where I always went when I needed space to think, or to pour a few lines into my diary until the world felt lighter.
I don’t know what made me come here after the session, but as the cold breeze brushes my face, I realize it was the right choice. The park is almost empty at this hour, a quiet Wednesday noon wrapped in winter light.
I sit on a bench facing the water, the skyline of Lower Manhattan stretching before me. For a long while, I just watch it. The water moving in slow, silver ripples, the sunlight breaking against it as if it’s trying to heal something, too.
I take my phone from my pocket. I want to talk to someone. I check the time, Mark is still in the meeting he mentioned this morning. And Felicity... I can’t bring myself to tell her everything. I don’t want to hand her my pain and watch her carry it, pretending it doesn’t hurt her, too.
I unlock the phone.
“I meant what I said—you can call me anytime, for any reason.”
No. I shouldn’t.
He probably said it out of kindness. A polite gesture, nothing more. I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over his name. And before I can talk myself out of it, I tap.
Me:Hey. Are you free to talk?
Less than ten minutes pass before the phone vibrates with his call.
“Cecily.”
My name in his voice feels different. Low, rough at the edges, grounded in a way that makes something inside me unclench. There’s warmth there.
“Hi, Alexander,” I say, my tone easing. “I hope I’m not interrupting... another one of your meetings.”
