“That’s exciting.” She writes something else down. I resist the urge to look and let my gaze drift toward the bird photo instead.
“Shall we go ahead and start?”
Our session is an hour. We’re ten minutes in, and Steven still isn’t here. I check my phone for an update, but no messages. A familiar unease pokes at the back of my mind, one that wants to screamthis isn’t going to workover and over until I try to run.
“Sure,” I finally say, sitting up straight and readying myself for whatever questions might be lobbed my way.
“Alright. Tell me why you’re here.”
“I was forced to be,” I mutter.
She smiles. “Did someone drag you here?”
“Basically.” I let out a humorless laugh. “My marriage has been…well, it’s not great. And we weren’t sure what else to do.”
“So this was a joint decision?”
“I thought so.” I glance at my phone again then at the still-closed door.
“What’s going through your head right now? Steven’s late; you’re here without him. How does that make you feel?”
My fingers tap against the armrest, the sound louder than it should be. I really don’t want to tell her how it makes me feel.I don’t want to unravel how the last few years have felt like watching a train wreck in slow motion. How sometimes, when Steven and I fight, I feel myself float out of my body, hovering above the disaster, watching it build and build, knowing exactly what’s coming and still unable to stop it—knowing the smartest thing to do would be to get off the tracks.
I chew the inside of my cheek. I stare at the birds. I do mental math (362 times 8), hoping she’ll pivot. She doesn’t. She just watches me for a moment then writes more notes.
I relent with a groan, that deep-rooted need to please a stranger steamrolling my boundaries. “I guess I’m mad,” I tell her. “Pissed, actually.”
She hums in response but doesn’t speak.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me why?” I cross my arms.
“Do you want me to ask you why?”
I lift a brow, not sure what to say. But I feel myself soften anyway as the real question settles in. Do I want her to know why? Do I wantanyoneto know?
I think I do.
“I’m mad because we’re supposed to be a team.” I huff. “That’s what marriage is, right? But lately, it’s felt very one-sided. We barely talk. And when we do, we’re tired and annoyed, andapparently,I’m not always pleasant.” I air quote the words of my husband, and she arches a brow at this. “I’m sure I could be worse, maybe? I don’t know. I just don’t feel like myself. I feel like a ticking time bomb, always ticking but never actually exploding. I miss my husband, but I feel like he’s scared to set me off. And I’m scared to tell him how I feel. Then I try to get the courage to, and I eventually just…” I deflate as my words, and the muscles in my back, lose momentum, and my shoulders slump.
“You lose steam?” Dr. Belo says gently, watching the very tired, very pregnant woman melt into her leather sofa as sweat slips betweenskin and cushion.
“Yes,” I sigh, like the word is a physical weight being lifted off of me.
“Have you told him this?”
I arch a brow.
She smirks. “How do you think he feels?”
I glance at the door as tears, grimy and unwelcome, fill my eyes. “Like he doesn’t notice,” I whisper.
Just then, footsteps thunder down the hall, followed by a quick knock. Dr. Belo gives me a soft smile, flicks her gaze toward the tissues, and goes to answer the door. I stealthily wipe my eyes with the tissue and shove it beneath my thigh. Steven doesn’t need to know we started without him. He doesn’t need to know I was crying abouthim.
“I’m so sorry,” Steven pants as the door opens. Sweat plasters his neck and face, splotching his scrubs in all the wrong places too.Did he run here?
“Come on in,” Dr. Belo says. “We were just getting started.”
“Did I miss anything?” His eyes are frantic and apologetic as they search mine.
