𝗣𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮: the fear of love or of becoming emotionally connected with another person.
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Her, the only one who is not afraid of saying what she thinks and not kissing his ass.
Him, the only one that wakes up a part of her that she as ne...
"Nobody cried Nobody even noticed I saw them standing right there Kinda thought they might care" Everything I wanted by Billie Eilish.
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—I SNIFF, CLEANING MY TEARS away with the sleeve of my leather jacket, trying to pull myself back together.
I turn my head, covering my lips with a fake smile, hoping it comes out as confident and not as crashed as I feel.
"How long has it been since you've last heard or seen him," Dr. Fran asks with sympathy.
"Since I have left. Maybe six years" I lie casually like I didn't just have a breakdown while talking about my past, looking away from her so that she doesn't notice I'm lying.
She nods, writing something down on her little notepad.
I used to try to look at what she was writing, but she hides it saying something like "privacy" or some shit like that.
"I would give you some more tissues but you finished them all" she jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
I look down at the hundreds of used boxes of tissues on the couch close to me and I let out a raspy laugh.
"Sorry about that" I cringe at the loud hiccup, escaping my mouth. I hate hiccups.
"It's fine" she waves the sorry away. "Do you feel comfortable talking more about it?" She asks, kindly.
Do I want to talk about it? No, he'll kill you if he finds out you're talking to a therapist, don't tell her more.
"No" My walls coming back up, as I listen to the little scared voice in my head, telling me that I'll get hurt if she finds out more.
"Okay, let's talk about something else," she says, looking down at her watch, to see the time, and staring right back at me intensely through her glasses. I look away again, she is probably disappointed that we've been doing this for three years and I have still not opened up as much as I should.
"Hey, it's fine, you don't need to tell me everything in one go," She says, as she probably sees my face, which is portraying how I feel.
I shrug, taking the mug half full of tea from the little table in front of me, and drinking a sip of it, trying to feel anything else fill my stomach other than this permanent feeling, pressuring down my chest. And to stop the stupid hiccup.
"So I heard that you have a meeting with your team today, how do you feel about that after the video?" She changes the topic from the harder one, which had my throat tightening with each word coming out of my mouth.
"I don't know," I say, half mindlessly, circling the brim of the mug with my pointer finger.
Don't get too close.
She nods, writing something down yet again. It irritates me not knowing what she is writing. Is it something bad? It probably is.
"Have you been on social media at all this week?" She continues with the questions, looking at me to see if I'm gonna lie. But I have not. Every time I get a notification I'm scared to look. Is it a hate comment? I don't want to know what people think about me. but at the same time I do.
