"calum, why don't you try writing about your relationship if you don't feel comfortable talking about it yet?" his therapist asks, looking up from the notes she'd been scribbling to study calum's reaction.
the tan boy doesn't provide much of a reaction, simply flicking his eyes from his lap to the ceiling and back to his lap. this is how most of their sessions go, the therapist having a one-sided conversation with calum, unless he gave a two-word answer. he didn't think he needed therapy, and he didn't see the issue with taking matters into his own hands and trying to end his life when things got out of hand. calum didn't believe that he had borderline personality disorder, despite what multiple psychiatrists had diagnosed.
calum made his mother take him to six different psychiatrists, and after the sixth one diagnosed him with the same diagnosis of the other five, he got mad. so mad, in fact, that he refused to properly speak to anyone about his mental health. considering it was difficult to get calum to speak to anyone about his mental health, his mother was pleased he'd talked about it to so many doctors. despite the fact that he was trying to downplay his mental illness even more with every new doctor he saw, they all diagnosed him with bpd- or, as calum liked to say, fucking nuts. this exclamation usually came in one of his rants to his best friend, michael, or in his diary.
calum's diary was the one place where he truly felt like he could express himself without anyone judging him, and so when he somehow let it slip last week at his therapy appointment that he wrote things down once in a while, the therapist latched onto the idea. when calum gave more than a two-word answer in a session, she was happy, and the fact that he'd mentioned that he liked to write had piqued her interest.
"so, what do you think? will you try writing about it? you don't have to show it to me if you don't want to, but it'll be helpful to get it out somehow," she asks again, trying to prompt an answer out of her current patient.
calum shrugs, looking at the clock on the wall in the room. five more minutes, he thinks. then, he can leave his therapist's office without a backwards glance until his next session in a week. in response to calum's shrug, his therapist sighs. "calum, i think it would be very beneficial if you tried an excercise i suggested to you. therapy won't work if you aren't participating, you know."
"fuck, fine, maybe," calum says lowly, anger seeping in his tone. he's beyond fed up with the therapy session, and he just wants to listen to angry music alone.
not surprised that calum's response was angry, she studies his face. "thank you. let me know if you do start to write please. you don't have to show me, but i want to know that you're trying one of my suggestions," she says, taking her eyes off of her patient to scribble down more notes.
completly and utterly finished with his therapy session, calum abruptly stands up. "bye," he says, grabbing his backpack from its location by his feet and swinging it onto his shoulder. the dark-haired boy walks out of the office without a second look.
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a/n: this is the only chapter not in diary format (where calum is writing to ashton) just so you get a little background that isn't completly biased in calum's direction
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