The therapist secret

Chapter 3

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Bella sat on the edge of her couch, Layla's file spread out on the coffee table in front of her. The lamp in the corner of the living room cast a warm, golden light across the pages, but it did nothing to soften the harshness of the words written there. Words like *trauma*, *abuse*, *self-harm*. Each one felt heavy in Bella's chest, as if she could somehow absorb Layla's pain through the ink on the paper.

She sighed, running her fingers through her hair, her mind still replaying the phone call from earlier that day. Layla's voice, shaking and small, had clung to Bella's thoughts ever since. The fear, the panic, the way she had sounded like a child lost in a storm—Bella couldn't shake it.

She picked up one of the reports, the details blurring together. Layla had been through so much. Far too much for someone her age. The file was filled with years of suffering, each line detailing another moment of heartbreak and hurt. Abuse at home. A failed system. An ex-boyfriend who had manipulated her so thoroughly that she'd lost herself entirely.

And somehow, through it all, Layla had survived. But it wasn't a clean survival. It wasn't a victory. It was a battle, fought daily, with scars left behind as proof. Bella couldn't help but wonder how long Layla could keep going like this, especially when the world kept throwing her back into the very things she was trying to escape.

Bella leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. She didn't have answers for Layla, just as she often didn't have answers for herself.

The silence of the room was oppressive. Normally, she found peace in the quiet, but tonight it felt suffocating, her own thoughts crowding in like dark shadows. She pressed her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the memories that rose unbidden to the surface.

She knew Layla's pain all too well. She'd lived her own version of it once, years ago. She had fought her own demons, struggled through sleepless nights filled with nightmares and panic attacks. Her own childhood, though not quite like Layla's, had left her with wounds that still ached sometimes, especially when she saw reflections of herself in her patients.

Bella's hand drifted to her wrist, fingers tracing the faint scars there, scars no one else knew about. She had gotten good at hiding them, just as she had gotten good at hiding the darker parts of herself from the world. But that didn't mean they weren't there, lurking beneath the surface. Some days, the weight of them pressed down on her like a heavy blanket, suffocating, relentless.

She had thought she'd buried all of it, left it behind in the years she'd spent working her way through school, through therapy, through every step that had led her to this moment—to being someone who helped others, someone who understood.

But with Layla, it felt different. Too close.

Bella stood up suddenly, the tension in her body too much to sit still with. She paced the small living room, her bare feet sinking into the soft rug, her eyes flicking toward the window where the rain still pattered against the glass. The storm outside mirrored the one inside her, both swirling and unsettled.

She knew she wasn't supposed to feel this much. Therapists were trained to create boundaries, to keep their emotions in check, to not get too close. But Layla—Layla had slipped through the cracks in her walls, just like the rain was seeping through the cracks in the window now. Bella cared too much. She knew it. And it scared her.

She stopped pacing, leaning against the window and staring out into the dark street below. Drops of rain slid down the glass like tears, distorting the world outside. The city was quiet, the occasional flicker of headlights the only movement.

Bella's phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling her from her thoughts. She hesitated before walking over, already knowing who it would be.

Sure enough, Layla's name flashed on the screen. It was just a text this time, not another panicked call.

*I'm okay. I made it home.*

Bella let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She typed back a quick reply: *I'm glad. We'll talk tomorrow.*

But even as she sent the message, her mind was still heavy with worry. Layla wasn't okay. Not really. And Bella knew that no matter how much she tried, no matter how many sessions they had, she couldn't save her. Layla had to save herself.

And that terrified her.

She tossed the phone back onto the couch and rubbed her temples, trying to ease the dull headache that was starting to form. The weight of her own struggles pressed harder on her in moments like this, when she felt powerless to help someone who was fighting the same battles she had once fought.

She wanted to believe she could help Layla in ways she hadn't been helped herself. But the truth was, Bella wasn't sure if she was strong enough. Not when the ghosts of her own past still haunted her in the quiet hours of the night. Not when she could still feel the sharp edges of her own scars, hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed calm.

Forcing herself to sit back down, Bella picked up the file again. She stared at it for a long moment before closing it, setting it aside. She couldn't look at it anymore tonight. She couldn't look at Layla's pain without feeling her own.

Tomorrow, she would go back to being the strong one. The therapist. The steady hand Layla needed. But tonight, in the safety of her own space, Bella allowed herself to break. Just a little. Just enough to feel human again.

She curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs, and closed her eyes, willing the darkness in her mind to stay at bay. Outside, the rain continued to fall, a soft, steady rhythm that eventually lulled her into a restless sleep, where her own memories waited in the shadows, ready to pull her under.