༺Masterpiece༻

XXXVI :: Therapeutic

"I understand, love," she said, moving around the room, carefully arranging the cushions on the sofa. "But you have to appreciate how much the orphanage means to him."

"But until the 20th? It's only the 9th today!" I protested, feeling a childlike frustration bubbling up inside me.

"Yes, until the 20th," she replied gently. "I've returned early, so talk to me. You've only had a new listener for four years." She puffed out her cheeks, her expression reminiscent of the adorable hamster I had known since childhood.

Antonella had indeed cut her stay short and returned unexpectedly. Despite many significant events still on her agenda, the urgent notification on her pager had compelled her to come back sooner. And the urgency was much more related to what I had to say.

"I just find it easier to talk to him these days. There's something magical in the way he makes anybody comfortable. I'm not saying that you make me uncomfortable, but Jimin's way is so therapeutic," I confessed, my eyes drifting towards the window.

"That's exactly his profession. Being a psychiatrist is to try to be therapeutic," she said, leaning back against the sofa and crossing her legs. "But come on, even your therapist needs therapy too. No wonder mental health issues are a taboo, but he has countless clients a day."

"Wait a minute, he said that his job barely makes his ends meet," I replied, frowning.

"Which one of you pays anything to make ends meet?" she retorted, a smirk playing on her lips. "I pay for everything. But that's just his way of saying that he's not going to shift because he likes me spending alone." She burst out laughing, the sound filling the room and partially roasting Jimin in the process.

"But if the topic is a taboo, how on Earth does he have countless clients?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Divorcees, criminals, juveniles, victims of SA, victims of domestic violence, widowers, and autistic children. They all seek Jimin. The thing you said, that he makes everything very comfortable, is exactly why he's in such demand. His shifts can last throughout the day," she explained, her tone softening as she spoke about him.

"How does he end up doing so much?" I asked, marveling at the dedication and compassion he must have.

"A passion to grow, a compassion to fight, a sentiment to heal, a deliberate urge to feel, an empathy for the pathetic, and a tireless search for a cure for himself," she said, her voice trailing off. There was a light in her eyes, a blend of respect and pity for the man she described.

I stared at the walls around us, feeling a pang of guilt. When had I become so selfish as to not care for his well-being? He doesn't just talk to people; he studies them. He creates an environment, molds himself to suit everyone. His approach is always to study the background, talk to the people in the background, watch, learn, understand whatever the solution is, and only then does he ever interact. He never sits in a chamber; he's a bystander in the crowd, but the sweetheart who bothers to care.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"It's alright, love," she said, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "I have assured him that I'll deal with whatever your situation is. I've dealt with it for over 20 years. I'm experienced in this field. So yes, he'll complete his stay there."

"You know, Noona, I can't tell you everything," I mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

"Why not, hmm?" she asked, her eyebrow raised as she settled onto the sofa, leaning forward slightly.

"Because, because there are certain... men's things that, you know, that is not, um, that is bad manners to tell a woman," I stammered, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.