"That's a lot of weight for a young man to carry."
He looked up at me, and something in his expression made my chest tight. "I was seventeen. I didn't know it was weight. I just knew my family was falling apart, and I had to do something."
"And now?"
"Now I'm thirty-two, and I can't remember how to put it down."
The honesty of it landed like a blow. I'd suspected something like this—the performance as armor, the charm as a survival mechanism—but hearing him articulate it so clearly was different. More real.
"That's what we're here to work on," I said. "Learning how to put it down. At least some of it. At least sometimes."
"Is that possible? After this long?"
"Yes. It takes time, and it's not easy, but yes. It's possible."
He studied me for a moment. "You sound like you know something about carrying weight."
"Everyone does."
"That's evasive."
"I'm allowed to be evasive. I'm the therapist."
"Seems unfair."
"Most of life is unfair. You strike me as someone who knows that."
He smiled—not the charming smile, something smaller. "You're good at this."
"I've had practice."
"Deflecting?"
"Listening. Asking questions. Staying out of the spotlight."
"You don't like the spotlight?"
"We're not here to talk about me."
"Maybe we should be."
I set down my pen, holding his gaze. "Mr. Zelenov. You're paying me to help you with your insomnia. That requires talking about you—your life, your stress, the things that keep you awake. It doesn't require knowing anything about me."
"Maybe I want to know anyway."
"Why?"
He didn't answer immediately, and I watched him think about it—actually think, not just reach for the easy deflection.
"Because you see me," he said finally. "You look at me, and you see... something. I don't know what. But it's more than most people see. And I want to know what kind of person has that ability. What made you this way."
"Grad school," I said dryly. "Thousands of hours of supervised practice. A great deal of student debt."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant."
"Then why won't you answer?"
