He explains, "You removed a coping mechanism without replacing it. That creates distress."
"So what am I supposed to do instead?" I ask, frustration creeping in. "And don't tell me to meditate. My mind won't silence itself, and when I try, it only makes it worse."
He smiles faintly. "We'll work on alternatives. Ones that don't harm you and don't rely on another person."
The last part stings. I blurt out, "You mean another person like you?" I blink hard, unable to stop my eyes from watering.
He takes a deep breath. "I meant so you can be safe on your own, not reliant on someone else for your safety."
I don't speak, afraid of what I might say.
He puts his pad of paper and pen on the table. "When you think about your brother moving to New York, or your sisters in Paris, what comes up for you emotionally?"
The quiver in my belly deepens. I shift in my chair, admitting, "Panic. Anger. Shame. Like I did something wrong and no one will tell me what it was."
"That aligns with withdrawal patterns from childhood," he claims.
I laugh bitterly. "So it's daddy issues."
He corrects, "It's attachment, and it's understandable. It makes sense why you attached yourself to Brax even though he didn't return your affection."
"I was wrong about him. He's not my everything," I declare. I hold back the ending that Red's my everything.
A tight smile forms on his lips. He praises, "That's good that you realize this now."
I blurt out, "You really would refer me out?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation.
The certainty in his voice hurts more than the threat itself. I ask, "Why?"
"Because if I don't, I become part of the problem instead of part of the solution."
I sigh. "You're not very romantic today."
"This isn't a romance," he says gently.
I study him and hate what I see. There's distance and restraint. He's holding himself back like it costs him something. I ask quietly, "Does it bother you?"
"What?"
My heart pounds harder. "That I'm…like this. That I want you. That I crossed lines."
He takes a moment, then carefully answers, "It concerns me. I care about your well-being."
"That's not an answer," I push.
"It's the only one I can give," he replies.
We sit in silence again, but it's different now. Less charged. More grounded.
After a moment, he asserts, "There's one more thing I want to discuss."
I tense. "What?"
"I'd like to suggest a future session with your parents."
My heart slams against my ribs. "Absolutely not."
