Broken Hands

47. Everything is different

The air in the room felt heavy, though it was just Grayson carrying that weight. The neat white walls, the identical white couch, and the sterile white table didn't help. The only splash of color was the green vase perched on a shelf—a begrudging addition after Grayson had grumbled about the oppressive monotony of the room.

Grayson sat on the couch, slouched, he stared straight ahead as the silence sank in, but his muscles were stiff and his mind warred with his thoughts. This had become a ritual ever since Damien had dragged him back to therapy: he'd sit in silence, while Mrs. Denise scribbled away at her notepad, offering neither pressure nor prompts. She'd learned quickly that pushing him only made him shut down further, so she allowed the silent therapy if you can call it that, and Grayson had been very thankful.

But the storm inside him brewed dangerously, growing louder with each passing second. For weeks he'd buried it, ignored it, smothered it, but now it found its way to the surface. The recent chaos in his life—everything he'd been trying to ignore—was too much to bear. And he needed to get it out to break the oppressive silence and see if it would work.

He glanced at Mrs. Denise. She sat at her desk, her pen moving rhythmically over the paper. Then he looked away, unable to break the silence that he had created in the first place, feeling defeated he inhaled sharply, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Mrs. Denise's pen paused mid-stroke. She lifted her gaze, her calm eyes meeting his. "Something on your mind?" she asked gently.

Grayson shifted, unconsciously counting his fingers. "Uh..." He hesitated, cursing the way his voice came out uncertain. "What are you noting?" he asked, grasping at anything to break the silence.

Mrs. Denise glanced at her notepad. "Just scribbling," she said. "Thoughts—whatever comes to mind."

He nodded, his fingers picking at a loose thread on the couch. "It must be hard putting up with me."

Her brows arched slightly, her expression unreadable. "This is my job," she said, her voice calm. "As you like to quote."

The response hit harder than he expected. Grayson swallowed the pang it left in his chest. "Sorry if I've offended you," he muttered, "Everyone seems offended by me lately. It's like... I'm cursed or something. Either I show up and ruin the mood, or I screw up and make it worse." He shrugged, trying to make it sound like he didn't care, but his voice betrayed him.

When Mrs. Denise set her notepad down and turned her full attention to him, her sharp, penetrating gaze locked on his in a surgical way. "Why do you think that?" she asked, her voice steady but with a probing edge that cut through his defenses.

Grayson hesitated. The walls he'd spent years perfecting rose instinctively, ready to shield him. The words on the tip of his tongue felt like barbed wire. But the weight inside him—raw and unbearable—pushed him to speak. "I feel trapped," he admitted shifting slightly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Mrs. Denise half nodded. "Trapped how?" she asked gently. "Like being stuck in the mud, or like a small space closing in on you?"

Grayson shrugged on a shoulder. "A small space," he said quickly. "Closing in. I can't breathe sometimes." The confession came out raw, unpolished. "I don't know why I do the things I do. Sometimes I want to stop—I need to stop—but I can't. And other times..." He faltered, his voice dropping, "I crave those things."

Mrs. Denise leaned forward slightly, her focus unwavering. "What things?" she asked, her tone soft but precise, the words landing like a scalpel cutting to the core.

Grayson swallowed, his throat tightening. The truth was there, begging to escape. But something kept it locked away. His gaze moved to the clock. "I don't know," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.