I glance at my reflection in the glass door of a nearby café, adjust my collar, and start walking toward Dr. Pembrooke’s office.
As I enter, once again the faint aroma of bergamot and old books strikes me—familiar, comforting. But today, for once, it doesn’t feel like a confession booth. It feels almost… easy.
I walk in smiling, lighter than I’ve felt in months.
“Morning,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket.
I pause for a moment, choosing my next words carefully, “I think we’ve made real progress here… I might actually be ready to move on without therapy.”
Her lips curve. “Really? That’s a bold statement. I’m happy to hear you’re feeling this sense of optimism.”
I sit halfway on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know what happened these last few weeks. Things just shifted. I’m sleeping again. I’m working better. I’m feeling… things I haven’t felt in a long time.”
She studies me quietly. “And how does that feel?”
I laugh under my breath. “Addictive. Like I finally got a piece of myself back. Even though part of me still knows I don’t deserve it.”
Her pen stills. “Nathan, that word again…deserve.We’ve never gotten to the bottom of why you believe you don’t. Wouldyou like to share? Maybe it’s time to dive into the middle of the lake?”
I shake my head, still grinning, though it falters a little. “Maybe another time..”
Dr. Iris gestures to the chair across from her. “Well, we still have forty-five minutes left. What would you like to talk about?”
Out of respect, I sit, lowering myself into the seat. The leather sighs beneath me. I’m still holding the journal she gave me.
As I sit, something slips free and flutters to the floor between us.
A folded envelope.
The air in the room changes before either of us says a word.
I lean down fast, snatch it up, and shove it back between the journal pages. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s nothing.”
Her voice stays gentle. “Nothing, huh?”
“Nothing important.”
Her eyes soften. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
I exhale, running a thumb along the notebook’s edge. “It’s just a letter from Maddison. Showed up this morning.”
Her expression shifts, curiosity threaded with concern. “And what did she say?”
I hesitate. “She sent back some keys. Said she couldn’t give them to me in person. Said seeing me would be… too hard.”
Iris tilts her head. “And that hurt you.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out quiet and flat. “No… not like before…”
“Before?” she asks softly.
I nod, staring past her shoulder, the air in my lungs suddenly heavy.
The paper feels hot in my hand. My pulse slows to the rhythm of an old memory clawing its way back.
I nod. “Yeah. I was seventeen. She’d just moved away. Sent me an email one night, said to meet her at a coffee shop by hernew home, three hours from me. Her dad was out of town, and she said it was our only chance to see each other. So, I printed directions off MapQuest, left before sunrise, and rehearsed what I’d say the whole drive down. When I arrived, she wasn’t there, so I waited an hour, turned into six hours… I waited all day. She never showed.”
A small laugh escapes me, dry, bitter. “I remember counting the tiles on the floor just to stay sane. At first, I was worried. The only thing that came to mind was that something must have happened to her. There's no way she would ever stand me up. So, when I got home, I was expecting my inbox to be flooded with an explanation, but there was nothing.” I sigh deeply, as I take a moment to gather my bearings, then go on with the story. “I sent her an email. ‘I was there. Are you okay?’ And got nothing.”
