Am I?
"We're done, Red. If you've taught me anything, it's to have some self-respect." She flings open the door and flies through it.
I follow her. "Don't say that. We're not done. Come back here. Let's talk this through."
She pauses by the exit and turns her head. "Talk? That's all we do. I'm tired of words without action." She turns back and yanks the door open.
"Blue, wait." I reach for her arm, but she shrugs me off, stepping into the hallway. The door swings shut behind her, leaving me staring at the wood floor, my chest heaving.
Several minutes pass.
Amy's voice drifts from the front desk, hesitant. "Dr. Mercer? Is everything okay?"
I scrub a hand over my face, forcing my tone even. "It's fine. Just a tough session."
She appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand, brows furrowed. "Are you sure? Blue seemed really upset. I think she was crying. If you need to reschedule the next appointment?—"
"No." I cut her off sharper than intended, then soften. "Keep the schedule as is. I'll be ready when my patient arrives."
Amy lingers for a beat, mouth opening like she wants to press, but she nods instead. "Okay. Mr. Hargrove called and is running five minutes late. I'll let you know when he arrives."
"Great." I step inside and close my office door. I pick up my phone and text Blue.
Me: I'm sorry you're upset. I know we need to figure things out. I'll come see you tonight when I'm done working.
Blue: Why? So you can come over, not touch me, and make me feel more rejected? No thanks.
I groan, start typing, then erase it.
Texting is only going to make things worse.
The rest of the day drags like sand through my veins. I sit through four more sessions, nodding at the right moments, asking the scripted questions, but my mind keeps replaying Blue's tears, her accusation echoing between every pause.
By lunch, I've checked my phone six times but haven't heard anything else from her. I force down a sandwich at my desk, staring at the blank screen, thumb hovering over her name.
Afternoon appointments blur together. A couple argues over finances, a teenager wrestles with anxiety, and an elderly widow processes loss. I jot notes and offer insights, but tension coils tighter in my gut with each tick of the clock.
Amy knocks once around three, poking her head in. "Anything I can do for you? Coffee run?"
I shake my head. "I'm good. Thanks."
She doesn't buy it. Her eyes narrow, but she backs off. "Alright. Last client's waiting."
By five, the office empties. I lock up and drive home on autopilot in silence. When I get into my condo, I change into running gear, hit the pavement hard, feet pounding asphalt as sunset bleeds orange across the sky.
Sweat soaks my shirt until my lungs burn, but the run doesn't quiet the noise in my head. Blue's face flashes with every tear, her anger, and the raw plea in her voice, eating at my guilt. I check my phone mid-stride and nearly trip.
Why isn't she messaging me?
Back home, I shower, eat a cold dinner standing at the counter, phone face-up beside the plate. Seven o'clock. Eight. Nine. The screen staysdark. My thumb scrolls through our old texts, playful ones that don't break the boundaries I insisted on, and heated ones from nights we broke every rule.
I finally type out a message.
Me: We need to talk.
Then I delete it and retype.
Me: I'm sorry.
