𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑪𝑰𝑮𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑺 ➣Keishin Ukai

prying

"Are you scared?"

You scoff, shaking your head, shoving your trembling hands between your thighs, your legs bouncing up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down.

"No," you mutter. "Why would I be?"

"You're shaking."

"I'm not."

"Y/n."

"Yes?"

She smiles, and for a moment, you want to reach out and let her in, but the seizing fear that she could use your pain against you stabs at you and you quickly shut her out once again, letting yourself drown in your thoughts. Of course, she catches on to this, so she sets her notepad down and pushes her reading glasses back in her hair.

"Y/n," she says again, softly this time. "My only goal here is to help you."

"I know," you reply.

"Do you?"

You nod, the repetitive motion somewhat soothing you. "I do."

"Your parents would be so proud of you," she says.

You choke, shaking your head. "You didn't even know them," you mumble. "How could you know that?" She stutters, her eyes pitying you. You hate the pity eyes. You hate them so much. Why does she have to do that? Why does she pity you? It scares you. So you stand and grab your purse. "I have to go. Thank you." You give a small bow before rushing out of the room and down the short hallways that lead to the exit.

You've trusted her before but today you just weren't ready to face the questions she had for you. And then for her to tell you they'd be proud? You shake your head, grinding your teeth as you walk faster. Faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster—

"Ma'am?"

You stop, turning to see the receptionist look at you worriedly. Your heart is racing, your breath uneasy, and the last thing you need is someone asking, "Are you okay?" It would make the dam of emotions holding you back break and you'd fall apart in the middle of the room with people watching. There's a young girl who already looks anxious to be here. If you suddenly drop to the floor panicking, you'll scare her more.

Truth is, you don't hate therapy and you do enjoy having someone to talk to when needed. But you hate when people try to pry. It feels claustrophobic. Like everyone is grabbing you and pushing and pulling, begging for answers to their questions. Your old therapist was so good. He was very patient with you, letting you take your time to open up. You used to be far worse than you are. Looking at cars gave you panic attacks and the smell of burning rubber and fire terrified you. You've been able to face those fears without panic.

But all good things come to an end. He retired and moved away with his dear wife. Of course, he was so hesitant to leave you, and he had said so himself. He told you if you ever needed anything, call him. You have his number and some nights you really want to call him. But how could you? It's no longer his job and he's enjoying his time with his wife. So you never do.

You don't hate therapy. You don't. But this particular therapist just pushed too many buttons at once. You can't hate her for that but you can't really trust her as much as you hoped you could.

"Would you like to schedule another appointment?" she asks.

No. "Uh," you say, not sure how to say no. Your words feel sticky, like you can't scrape them off the roof of your mouth to say. They're stuck so you simply shrug and rush out the doors, your bag thrown over your shoulders. You think she calls for you again but you don't stop. How could you? The racing symptoms of an anxiety attack are beginning and you'd rather not be near anyway.