Monday morning arrived grey and quiet, the city wrapped in the soft drizzle of early autumn. The kind of morning that felt muted at the edges, as if the world itself had lowered its volume. Elliot had not slept well. He had turned over the same thoughts again and again, fraying them to threads. He had not wanted to sleep, not really. Sleep meant slipping into dreams where his parents still existed, only to wake up and lose them all over again.
The weekend had been long, a mixture of empty hours. Half-formed thoughts, and the gnawing ache of guilt for everything he could not fix about himself.
Noah sat at the edge of the couch, nursing a mug of coffee that steamed gently in the cool air. He was reading an old paperback with the spine barely held together. He didn't look up when the doorbell rang. He already knew who it was.
Dr. Harper stepped inside with his usual calm presence. He carried the faint scent of cedar and clean soap, a scent that never changed and grounded Elliot more than he could admit.
"Good morning, Elliot," he said softly as the door closed behind him.
"How was the weekend?"
Elliot lifted one shoulder in a shrug, eyes fixed on the corner of the rug. His jaw was tight. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises, as if sleep had tried to reach him and he had pushed it away.
Noah stood, gesturing for the therapist to sit.
"It was rough," he said quietly.
"But we made it through."
Dr. Harper nodded with understanding rather than praise.
"Good. That's what matters." He turned his attention back to Elliot.
"Shall we sit?"
Elliot hesitated before lowering himself into the armchair opposite him. His movements were small and careful, as if he worried that any sudden shift might draw attention he could not handle. His notebook rested on the coffee table. He looked at it once, then looked away. His hands twisted in the sleeves of his hoodie.
Dr. Harper offered him a gentle smile.
"There's no pressure to write today. Or to speak if you don't want to. I'm simply here."
Elliot's eyes flicked toward him. The look was wary, almost defensive, like an animal uncertain if it was being cornered.
"I… I don't know if I can..." he started quietly. "I can't… be like everyone else. I don't… understand people. I never have."
Noah placed a steady hand on his shoulder. Elliot tensed at first, instinctively recoiling from touch, then stilled. His muscles softened just a fraction, enough for warmth to seep through the fabric.
Dr. Harper leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees. His voice stayed soft, steady and sure.
"That's alright. You don't have to understand everyone to exist beside them. Sometimes it's enough to simply notice. To be aware. To allow moments to unfold."
Elliot's throat tightened. A dozen arguments rose in him, all tangled. He wanted to say that noticing was not enough, that he kept misreading signals and stepping into the wrong emotional space, that he had never understood what people wanted from him.
"I've always been… different, awkward," he said eventually.
The words shook.
"Even as a kid. I tried to make friends. I just… couldn't."
The memories pressed in on him: teachers calling him "too quiet" or "too intense," kids who stopped inviting him because he misread sarcasm as truth or truth as cruelty, the ache of not knowing what he had done wrong.
He had learned everything about people through trial and error, mostly error. No one ever explained that he was autistic. No one ever taught him how to navigate a world that felt built for someone else entirely. He had spent years piecing together rules through observation and guesswork, never confident, always one misstep away from humiliation.
Dr. Harper nodded with a deep, quiet empathy.
"That sense of isolation is familiar to you. It has shaped you. And it is real."
He let that sit for a moment.
"But it does not have to define what happens next. There are people here who care. People who remain by your side even when things are hard."
Elliot swallowed. His breath stuttered. He looked at Noah, as if checking whether those words could be true. Noah gave him a nod, an anchor in human form.
"I… I can't change," Elliot said. "I can't be… different."
"You do not have to change anything," Dr. Harper replied.
"And you do not have to do anything alone. All you have to do is be here, in this moment. Nothing more."
Noah's grip tightened slightly.
"You're not alone," he assured him quietly.
"I'm not going to leave. You don't have to handle any of it by yourself."
Elliot's chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. For a split second he leaned into Noah's touch, seeking grounding, letting himself be held upright. He realised only afterward that he had done it.
Dr. Harper did not press the point further. Instead he spoke about small, manageable steps:
Noticing feelings without judging them.
Letting moments of pain exist without burying them.
Allowing someone else to witness those feelings without shame or fear.
Dr Harper didn't ask for confessions. He didn't demand emotional clarity. He offered patience. Presence. A path carved through uncertainty.
Noah added quiet reminders of what Elliot did over the weekend.
"You got out of bed. You ate. You talked. You let me sit with you. That matters, Elliot. Even when it feels small."
The hour drifted by in steady, gentle conversation. Elliot's tension rose and fell like a tide, but it did not sweep him under. Sometimes he closed his eyes, overwhelmed. Sometimes he leaned forward, listening intently. Sometimes silence filled the room, comfortable rather than sharp. Dr. Harper never rushed him.
When it was time for Dr Harper to leave, a subtle shift lingered in the air. Elliot wasn't fixed. He wasn't magically better. But he hadn't shut down entirely either. He had stayed. He had let himself be seen. He had accepted help without running.
Dr. Harper paused at the door. He knelt slightly and placed a hand on Elliot's arm, grounding him with a single steady gesture.
"I'll come back again tomorrow," he said.
"Until then, remember that you don't have to face any of this alone. Not anymore."
When the door clicked shut behind him, Elliot sagged back into the armchair, drained, yet strangely lighter. His body felt like an unstrung instrument, loose and fragile, but not hollow. Noah remained at his side, silent, but present.
The weekend had been survived. The storm hadn't consumed him. Elliot could imagine tomorrow. Not as a threat waiting to swallow him, but as the next small step he might actually be able to take.
He let out a long breath and stared at the coffee table where the unused notebook still rested. He didn't pick it up. He didn't need to. Not yet.
For now, the quiet was enough. The room was warm. Noah stayed close. And somewhere, faintly, beneath the exhaustion, there was a flicker of something new.
Something like the beginning of hope.