Page 63 of Letters From A Stalker

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I eye him suspiciously. “You have a habit of saying that immediately before something becomes significantly more complicated.”

“I’ve noticed you have a habit of expecting complexity even when I’m not offering it.”

I open my mouth, then decide there is absolutely no useful response to that and settle for narrowing my eyes at him instead.

He doesn’t look particularly threatened. In fact, he looks… amused?

The room falls quiet for a few seconds, but the silence feels different from the ones during our first session. Back then, every pause made me feel as though I should fill it before he found whatever I was trying not to say. Now I can sit in one without immediately needing to rescue either of us from it.

Outside the window, the gray afternoon has darkened enough that the glass reflects part of the room back at me. Kai’s outline sits opposite from mine, composed as always, one ankle resting over the other knee while the notepad lies against his thigh.

I’m still very aware that he’s attractive. That hasn’t magically disappeared because I now know what his therapist voice sounds like when he tells me my mother has been living inside my decision-making process for most of my adult life. If anything, familiarity has made certain things easier to notice. The way he takes his glasses off when he’s thinking particularly hard. The slight tightening along his jaw when something I tell him makes him angry even though his voice never changes. The fact that he listens without looking like he’s simply waiting for his turn to speak.

None of those things mean anything. He’s my psychiatrist. I’m his patient. Still, I understand now why some people become attached to therapists. There is something unsettlingly intimate about being given someone’s complete attention for an hour when most conversations in real life are divided between phones, thoughts, interruptions and whatever the other person is waiting to say next.

Kai glances toward the clock on the wall, and I follow his gaze. “We’re almost out of time.”

I’m surprised enough to check the time myself. “That went fast.”

“It did.” There’s nothing unusual in the answer, but the simple agreement makes me strangely conscious of how comfortable I’ve become in this chair.

I bend to pick up my bag and pull the strap over my shoulder. “So my homework is basically to catch everyone else answering questions in my head before I do.”

“More or less. You don’t need to analyze it while it’s happening. Just notice it.”

“That sounds suspiciously manageable.”

“I thought I’d give you a week off from emotional devastation.” He says with something pulling at his mouth resembling a smug smirk.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I have my moments.” The dry delivery makes me smile as I stand.

Kai rises with me, closing his notebook before following me toward the door. “How are you feeling, before you leave?”

I consider giving him the automatic answer just to see what he does with it, but somewhere in the last few weeks that has stopped being as funny as it used to be.

“Good, actually.” I adjust my bag against my shoulder and search for the more accurate version. “A little tired, but not the kind where I want to sleep for eleven hours in my clothes. Just normal tired.”

He watches me for another second before nodding. “Good.”

“Same time next week?” The question has become a habit but nevertheless, doesn’t hurt to check.

“Yes.”

I step into the hallway, then glance back at him. “I’m holding you personally responsible if I discover there are fourteen people living in my head by Friday.”

“I’ll prepare for group therapy” He nods slowly, his hand sliding into his pockets casually.

“You should probably bring snacks.” I throw back over my shoulder, already moving.

“I knew we’d get back to that eventually.” His voice follows me toward reception, warm enough around the edges that I’m still smiling when Mara looks up from behind her desk.

And for once, I leave the clinic feeling lighter than when I walked into it.