The Therapist's healing heart

Dinner Dilemmas

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time we returned to the cabin. Shadows stretched across the wooden floorboards, and the smell of pine filled the air as I tossed my backpack onto a chair with more force than necessary.

"Dinner will be ready in a bit!" Andre called from the kitchen, his voice cheerful and annoyingly chipper as usual. I let out an exasperated sigh, my mind still buzzing from our earlier conversation. I wanted to be angry with him, to cling to my grumpiness like a shield, but he just kept worming his way under my skin.

Why was he acting like my therapist? I was supposed to be helping him, not the other way around. It felt absurd that I was getting analyzed by my own client, and I didn't appreciate how effortlessly he seemed to penetrate my defenses. The more he pushed, the more I felt the walls closing in.

"Why are you in such a good mood?" I muttered as I made my way to the kitchen. "You're the one who just went hiking with a grump."

He turned to me, a spoon in one hand and a mischievous grin plastered on his face. "Maybe because I actually enjoy hiking with you, grumpiness and all."

"I don't believe you," I shot back, crossing my arms. "You must have a hidden agenda. It's like you're trying to analyze me or something."

"Me? Analyze you?" He feigned innocence, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Nah, I just think you're fascinating."

"Fascinating? You've got to be kidding me," I scoffed, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. "I'm your therapist, not some curiosity to dissect."

"And yet you're the one getting all flustered about it," he replied, his voice laced with humor. "It's almost like you're the one who needs therapy."

"Great, just great," I mumbled, pouring myself a glass of water. "Now my client thinks I need help. This is exactly what I needed today."

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, his voice light but edged with seriousness. "You're the professional here."

"Because it feels wrong!" I exclaimed, feeling my frustration boil over. "I shouldn't be the one questioning myself. I'm supposed to be the one guiding you, not the other way around."

"Maybe you're supposed to do both," he suggested, leaning against the counter. "You're allowed to have your own feelings, Elara."

"Allowed? I'm not some emotional wreck. I have a job to do. I can't let my feelings interfere," I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

"Interfere? It sounds like they already are," he countered, his eyes locking onto mine with a knowing intensity. "You're all bottled up, and it's not good for you."

I bristled at his words, feeling a pang of anxiety creep in. "This isn't about me. This is about you and your progress," I insisted, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"Right, but if you're not okay, how can you help me?" he challenged, stepping closer. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes."

The moment was thick with tension, and I could feel my heart racing. "This isn't how it's supposed to work," I said, frustration bubbling up again. "I'm not supposed to feel like I'm the one needing help. I'm your therapist."

"And I'm not just some patient you can analyze," he replied, his voice softening. "I'm a person, and so are you. This dynamic doesn't have to be one-sided."

I felt a flush creep into my cheeks. "That's not how it works in therapy," I said, almost pleading. "I'm supposed to be the one in control."

"Control?" he echoed, tilting his head. "What's so great about control? It sounds exhausting, and honestly, it seems like it's making you unhappy."