"Fine, fine. Keep your secrets." She laughed, and the sound made me ache for something I couldn't name. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Opening up. Letting someone in. You deserve to be happy, Keira. Whatever happened in the past—you deserve more than hiding."
I promised. I didn't mean it.
After we hung up, I sat in my dark apartment and thought about what she'd said.You deserve to be happy.It sounded so simple. So achievable. Like happiness was just a choice you made, a door you walked through.
She didn't understand. Couldn't understand. The life I'd built was a house of cards, and one wrong move could bring it all crashing down. I couldn't let anyone in because letting someone in meant trusting them with the truth. And the truth was a weapon that could destroy everything I'd worked for.
I thought about Rodion. About his fabricated name and his careful deflections and all the things he wasn't telling me. We were the same, he and I. Two liars circling each other, drawn together by the recognition of kindred damage.
It should have made me run. Instead, it made me want to stay.
Thursday morning, I woke early with a strange sense of unease.
I couldn't pinpoint it at first. Just a prickle at the back of my neck, a low hum of alertness that I hadn't felt in years. I went through my morning routine—shower, coffee, the careful armor of professional dress—and tried to shake it off.
The walk to work felt different. I found myself scanning the crowds more carefully than usual, looking for... what? I didn't know. A familiar face. A pattern that didn't fit. Something wrong that I couldn't name.
I stopped at my usual coffee shop, and while I waited for my latte, I watched the street through the window. Pedestrians flowed past in the usual morning rush. Nothing out of place. Nothing unusual.
But the feeling persisted.
I'd learned to trust that feeling. It had saved my life more than once, back when my life needed saving. The instinct that saidsomeone is watching, someone is following, something is wrong. I'd spent years honing it, and then more years trying to forget it, and now here it was again, whispering warnings I couldn't interpret.
You're being paranoid. No one knows you're here. No one is looking.
I almost believed it.
At the office, I buried myself in work. Reviewed case notes. Answered emails. Prepared for my sessions. The professional routine was soothing in its familiarity, and by midmorning, the unease had faded to a low background hum.
Then three o'clock came, and Margaret buzzed to tell me Mr. Zelenov had arrived, and everything else fell away.
I took a breath. Straightened my blazer. Reminded myself of all the boundaries I'd sworn to maintain.
Then I opened the door.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the city, and for a moment, I just watched him. The set of his shoulders. The way he held himself—relaxed on the surface, coiled underneath. He turned when he heard the door, and his face did something complicated when he saw me. Relief, maybe. Or hunger. Or both.
"Dr. Walsh."
"Mr. Zelenov. Please, sit."
We settled into our usual chairs, the familiar configuration that had somehow become charged with meaning. He was watching me with those dark eyes, and I forced myself to meet his gaze steadily. Professionally.
"How was your week?" I asked.
"Long." That word again, weighted with everything he wasn't saying. "Yours?"
"We're here to talk about you."
"We're always here to talk about me. Maybe I'm tired of that."
"That's often how patients feel around the third session. The initial novelty wears off, the real work begins to feel tedious—"
"That's not what I meant."
I knew what he meant. I chose to ignore it.
"Last session, you talked about performing. About the role you play in your family. I'd like to explore that further."
