The days following my session with Dr. Price felt heavier than usual, like I was carrying something invisible but weighty. The memory of my father, the sketch, and her words—they clung to me in a way I couldn't shake.
At night, I found myself flipping through the notebook, staring at the pages filled with meticulously crafted plans. They felt hollow now, like echoes of a past I wasn't sure I belonged to anymore. The certainty that had once guided me was slipping, replaced by something unsettlingly undefined.
Mara reached out again, her message short but persistent: "Coffee tomorrow? My treat."
I stared at the text for a long time. It had been weeks since I'd seen her, though her presence lingered in my life through sporadic messages and fleeting thoughts. Part of me wanted to ignore her, to retreat into the solitude I was more comfortable with. But another part—the part that had kept the sketch, that had let Dr. Price's words linger—made me type a simple reply: "Sure."
We met at a small café on the edge of town, a quiet place where the noise of the world seemed to soften. Mara was already there when I arrived, sitting by the window with a cup of tea in front of her. She waved me over, her smile warm but cautious.
"Hey," she said as I slid into the seat across from her. "Thanks for coming."
"Yeah," I said, unsure of what else to say.
She studied me for a moment, her eyes searching. "You seem… different. Lighter, maybe?"
I scoffed, the sound bitter. "I don't feel lighter."
She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "But something's changed. I can tell. Do you want to talk about it?"
I hesitated, the familiar urge to deflect rising in me. But then I thought of the sketch, of the way it had felt to share even a fragment of myself with Dr. Price.
"I've been seeing a therapist," I said finally, the words strange on my tongue.
Mara's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she didn't say anything right away. Instead, she sipped her tea, giving me space to continue.
"It's… weird," I admitted. "She makes me think about things I don't want to think about. Stuff from my past, things I've buried. It's like she's peeling back layers I didn't even know were there."
Mara smiled faintly. "That's what good therapists do. It's not easy, but it's worth it. Do you feel like it's helping?"
I considered the question, the answer elusive. "I don't know," I said finally. "Maybe. It's unsettling, though. Like I'm losing my footing."
She nodded. "Change feels like that sometimes. But losing your footing means you're moving, you know? You're not stuck in the same place anymore."
Her words struck a chord, echoing something Dr. Price had said. I nodded, though I wasn't sure I entirely believed it.
As we talked, I felt a strange sense of ease creeping in. It wasn't like the effortless mask I wore with most people; it was something quieter, more genuine. Mara didn't push or pry, but her presence had a way of drawing out truths I hadn't meant to share.
By the time we left the café, the weight I'd been carrying felt a little lighter, if only for a moment.
That night, I returned to my notebook, flipping past the pages of plans and strategies until I reached a blank page. Without thinking, I picked up a pen and began to write—not about schemes or dark desires, but about my father.
I wrote about the way his laugh could fill a room, the way he used to ruffle my hair when he thought I wasn't paying attention. I wrote about the warmth of his hand on mine during those childhood games, the sense of safety I had felt in his presence.
The words came slowly at first, but they began to flow, carrying with them a strange mix of emotions. Grief, longing, and something else I couldn't quite name—a flicker of something lighter, almost hopeful.
When I finally set the pen down, I stared at the page, my chest tight but not in a bad way. For the first time in a long time, the darkness didn't feel all-consuming. There was something else there, faint but persistent.
A memory. A connection.
Maybe even a beginning.
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