kalopsia [harry styles]

1

FALLON COLLINS

I was late.

I was incredibly late, and I didn't like it.

I was normally early if something, but I didn't know what had gotten into me and why I had decided that getting coffee 20 minutes before the session started was okay.

It was New York after all. There was always traffic, and for some reason that hadn't popped into my mind when I had stepped into the café with the idea of getting a latte to go.

I scramble out of the subway and into the street, looking at the time and cursing to myself.

It was 4:15. I was already 5 minutes late.

I start walking quicker, almost breaking out into a jog as I passed mindless people on the streets and rounded the corner into the street the building was on.

Huffing for breath, I curse to myself for not working out more often. I made a mental note to start going to the gym, because god I needed it.

I walk up the stairs, pushing the door, knowing it would already be open before I finally stop to catch my breath. I wait a few moments before composing myself and walking towards the room the session always took place in.

As I walk into the room, I put on a smile, one that I had come to perfect over the months of coming here. As soon as I walk into the room all heads turn to me, staring as if I had grown another head.

I curse to myself, not liking the attention I was getting. It wasn't something I was used to, not since....

Anyways. I run a hand through my hair, forcing out a small smile even though I didn't feel like it.

"Fallon" Lucy, the head therapist of the group acknowledges me with a warm smile. She was a petite lady, in her late 60's, and had been the leader of the sessions ever since I had started coming here. She was nice, and radiated happiness, but I didn't like the fact that she was always trying to get things out of me.

I know it's her job, but sometimes I just wished she minded her own business.

She waves, motioning to the only left seat in the circle.

"Hey Lucy" I mumble quietly, leaning my head down in slight embarrassment as I walk towards the only seat left.

I put down my bag, taking a seat and making myself comfortable before finally looking around at the faces in the room.

Most seemed to be the same as always; the people in the sessions barely changed given the fact that all of us had severe (mostly) mental issues and weren't about to get discharged any time soon, me included.

I hadn't been coming here a long, a few months at most, and I didn't really like it. Sure, I know therapy is supposed to make you feel good and get past your trauma, but for me so far it hasn't done anything. I tried to give it a chance though, for Faith, but as much as I want to talk about myself and all my deep mental issues, I just can't find myself sharing my life story with a bunch of strangers.

My gaze halts suddenly when I see a man sitting across from me in the circle of chairs, someone who I hadn't seen at all in my ten months of coming here religiously once a week.

I tilt my head to the side, slightly confused as to why he seemed to be familiar. He had green eyes, and I could tell from the look on his face that he didn't want to be here, and I didn't blame him. Majority of the time these sessions were a bore, but I still came every time.

The man sports a casual button up t-shirt, the first three buttons opened to reveal some of the tattoos on his chest. He has dark jeans, and a pair of white sneakers.