𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓛𝓲𝓵𝔂

𝓟 𝓡 𝓞 𝓛 𝓞 𝓖 𝓤 𝓔

       THE AFTERNOON SUN filtered through the tall windows of Dr. Koy’s office, casting a warm glow across the room. Her office, with its gentle lighting and shelves lined with books and plants, had long been a place of comfort and familiarity for me. Over the years, it had become a sanctuary where I could confront my fears and anxieties.

I took a deep breath and settled into the well-worn leather chair, letting my fingertips trace the upholstery’s pattern absentmindedly. The faint scent of eucalyptus and lavender, which Dr. Koy used to foster a calming atmosphere, now felt synonymous with safety and understanding to me.

Our sessions started back when I was a university student, grappling with the pressures of my obsessive-compulsive disorder alongside my studies. Dr. Koy had been my professor before she became my therapist, and it was her gentle persistence that convinced me to seek therapy. Over time, our professional relationship deepened into something more profound—a bond that felt almost maternal.

Dr. Koy sat across from me, her eyes crinkling with the gentle, encouraging smile she always wore. On her desk sat the ever-present pineapple figurine, a quirky metaphor for my OCD with its many "eyes"—a constant reminder of my need to check and recheck everything. It was a symbol that had stuck with me, a humorous nod to the absurdity of my condition.

“Lingling,” she began in her soothing, steady voice, “how are you feeling today?”

I took a moment to reflect. “Anxious,” I admitted with a nervous laugh, “but also hopeful.”

“That’s a good combination,” she said, leaning in slightly. “Let’s talk about the progress you’ve made.”

I inhaled deeply and began recounting the small victories. “I’ve been able to cut down on my checking rituals. It’s not perfect, but I’ve reduced the time I spend on them. I only checked the door locks twice last night. And I’m managing my compulsions better in public places.”

Dr. Koy nodded, clearly pleased though not surprised. “That’s excellent progress. You’ve worked hard to get here.”

I smiled, feeling a swell of pride mixed with a touch of disbelief. “It’s still strange, though, not needing to check everything all the time. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing something.”

“That’s perfectly normal. Change, even positive change, can be unsettling. But you’ve built new habits, healthier ones. And you’re starting to trust yourself more.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence filled with the weight of all we had been through together. Dr. Koy had been more than just my therapist; she had been a guide, a mentor, and a friend. She had seen me at my worst and had never gave up on me.

“Ling,” she said gently, breaking the silence. “I have some great news.”

My heart raced. “What is it?”

Dr. Koy’s smile broadened, her eyes bright with excitement. “Your latest evaluations show remarkable improvement. Your symptoms have decreased so much that we can consider this your final session.”

I was momentarily speechless, the words hanging in the air. “Really?” I whispered.

“Yes, really,” she confirmed, her voice warm and proud. “You’ve worked incredibly hard, and it’s paying off. Your pineapple is losing its eyes, as we used to say.”

A wave of relief washed over me, mingling with joy and disbelief. “It feels surreal.”

“It’s very real,” she assured me. “You’ve learned how to manage your thoughts and anxieties. You’ve reclaimed control.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I did not bother to wipe them away. “Thank you, Doctor Koy. Thank you for everything. I couldn’t have done it without you. You’ve been my guide through all of this.”

She reached across the desk and took my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “This was all you, Ling. The strength has always been yours; I just helped you see it.”

We sat quietly, the weight of our shared journey settling around us. The countless hours spent in this room, the tears, the breakthroughs, the setbacks—all of it had led to this moment.

As our session drew to a close, I stood up, feeling lighter than I had in years. Dr. Koy walked me to the door, her hand resting on my shoulder in a gesture of support and pride.

“Remember,” she said softly, “you’re not alone. You’ve got this.”

Leaving her office, I felt a newfound lightness in my steps. The bustling streets of Bangkok seemed less daunting, the noise and chaos less overwhelming. The sun’s warmth on my face felt different, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in a future free from the constant vigilance of the pineapple’s eyes.

It was the end of one journey and the beginning of another, and I was ready to embrace it wholeheartedly.