I close my eyes, letting more truth sink in. The relief I felt didn't come from professional validation. It came from impact and influence, and it settles uncomfortably in my chest.
Brax.
His face pops up in my mind, and my eyes fly open, wanting to escape the image. His name alone irritates me, and it shouldn't. I attempt to push it away, but I can't help reflecting on the way I paused my pen immediately when his name came across her lips.
Jealousy isn't the right word. That would imply emotion without structure. My annoyance is something colder. Someone else once occupied the space of fixation she now places on me.
He didn't want her.
What kind of fool doesn't want her?
What am I saying?
I need to find her another therapist. I'm in too deep.
I helped her today.
The idea of her sitting across from another therapist, and especially another man, guiding her regulation, interpreting her disclosures, receiving the focus she gives me, lands sharp and misaligned.
I can find her a female therapist.
She's the most intriguing woman I've ever met.
She's struggling and needs help.
It doesn't change how extraordinary she is.
"Fuck," I mutter, return to my desk and sit, opening a blank email draft before I can reconsider referring her out. It's the only right thing to do. My objectivity is compromised.
I type Referral in the subject line, then pause. Names surface automatically, all colleagues I respect. But none of them feels right. They're too detached, inexperienced, or likely to misinterpret her volatility as manipulation or attention-seeking rather than what it is. She requires structure and precision. She needs a therapist who won't indulge or withdraw.
Someone like?—
I stop typing, delete the subject line, and close the draft without saving it. Instead, I open my notes again and add a brief entry outlining continued treatment justification, increased structure,clear expectations, firm authority, and the need for professional distance.
I read it twice, ensuring the language is clean enough to convince anyone reviewing it, including myself. But the reality is simpler and more troubling.
Blue responds to decisiveness.
Her anxiety decreases when I don't negotiate, soften, or emotionally fluctuate.
I allow the thought to settle in quietly, fully formed, and I don't reject it because I chose structure over distance today. I commit to continuing to do so, and not because I want her dependence, but because allowing instability would be irresponsible.
That justification holds. So I test it again, insisting to myself that it's stable and the way to move forward.
I gather my files, restore the office to order, and prepare for my morning session like nothing has shifted. But as I turn off the light to leave, one truth remains, steady and undeniable beneath the professional calm.
Blue's no longer a neutral presence in my work. And I'm no longer unaffected by her.
I lock my office door behind me and step into the hallway. The day should be over, but I can't leave my work at the office. I can with other patients, but not with her, and it's another strike against me.
I adjust my jacket as I walk, my thoughts continuing to circle back to her despite every effort to redirect them.
The elevator doors slide shut. I exhale slowly and stare at the brushed metal wall, counting breaths the way I've taught a hundred patients to do.
My body refuses to settle. There's a low hum beneath my skin, like static waiting for a discharge.
A Bluebird chirp blasts out in the elevator.
