"She used to be happy, you know," he said miserably.
The counsellor - he always preferred the term 'counsellor' rather than therapist; therapist made him sound like he belonged in a mental hospital - raised her eyebrows. "Do you want to tell me?"
"When we met," he began, "she was happy."
There was a silence and he started to remember.
"Charlie?" the counsellor asked. He always forgot her name; it was never important to him.
"She was eleven. I'd moved towns. She'd asked for my phone number to be polite and 'welcome me,'" he made quotes with his hands. "At least, that's what she told me."
"Did she make you happy?"
"Of course she did. She...she was incredible."
"Did you make her happy?"
"I thought I did," he whispered, barely audible. "Or maybe I did at first. I...things just broke apart. Like they always do."
"Can you tell me some of the happy conversations?"
"I have her phone with me, actually."
"Will that help?"
"She carried her phone with her everywhere. It was like a security blanket. And I know for a fact she saved nearly all of her conversations, so I can show you." Charlie blinked back the tears and took her phone out of his pocket, to be greeted with the background of the two of them smiling happily in their local town. "Let's start with the first time we talked..."
