Page 9 of Letters From A Stalker

Thirty-four.

Referral source: Online search.

My attention moves lower.

Reason for seeking treatment: “I don't think I can keep pretending I'm fine.”

The sentence holds my attention longer than it should. Not because it's unusual but because it isn’t. I've read different versions of those same words hundreds of times.

I'm okay.

I'm managing.

Everything's fine.

People build entire lives around those sentences until one day they wake up too exhausted to keep carrying them.

"You noticed it too.” Mara’s voice drops to a whisper. She already knows.

"Did she write this herself?"

She nods. "I called this morning and it went straight to voicemail. About twenty minutes later her friend called me back and said she'd pass the message along. Ms. Hayes returned the call herself a little while later and confirmed we could coordinate appointments through her friend if she didn't answer."

I continue reading.

Previous therapy.

Complicated grief.

Recent panic attack.

No current medication.

No active suicidal ideation.

Then my eyes stop again.

Father deceased by suicide after being reported missing for 15 days.

Date of death: patient's birthday, 5 years ago.

My thumb stills against the edge of the tablet.

Life has a way of being unnecessarily cruel sometimes. This feels like one of those times.

"Can we get her in this week?"

Mara gives me a look that says she's already three steps ahead.

"I offered her Thursday's cancellation before I walked in here."

"She took it?"

"She called back within two minutes."

I nod once. People who spend months convincing themselves they're fine don't usually answer that quickly unless pretending has finally become harder than telling the truth.

"Forward me the rest of her intake."