The word sits in her throat before she says it.
Uncomfortable.
Imprecise.
"Symptoms."
It sounds absurd in the open air.
Like she is describing an illness she cannot see.
Axel doesn't react.
Doesn't stiffen.
Doesn't look alarmed.
He simply turns his head slightly.
"What symptoms?"
Not skeptical.
Not dramatic.
Just curious.
Laura inhales slowly.
She chooses structure.
Listing is safer than emotion.
"I had a strong reaction earlier."
He waits.
"When I played the wrong note."
She keeps her gaze forward.
"It wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't frustration."
A pause.
"It felt like threat."
She dislikes how that sounds.
Threat implies danger.
There was none.
Axel doesn't interrupt.
He doesn't minimize it.
He nods once, encouraging continuation without demanding it.
"I googled it."
The admission feels oddly heavier than the rest.
She rarely searches for answers outside herself.
"I wanted to know if it was… disproportionate."
"And?" he asks softly.
Her fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the bench.
"Possibly."
She exhales.
"It mentioned conditioned fear response."
She does not say trauma yet.
The word hovers, unspoken.
She continues before she can overthink it.
"I've been feeling… tired."
Not physically exhausted.
"Emotionally."
The distinction matters.
"Not sad. Not overwhelmed. Just… reduced."
Axel's jaw shifts slightly.
He remains still.
"And detached."
She says it plainly.
"As if I'm observing instead of participating."
She doesn't look at him.
If she sees concern, she might retreat.
"I don't usually feel detached."
That is an understatement.
She rarely feels anything without categorizing it first.
The last admission takes longer.
She does not want to say it.
But it has been circling her since yesterday.
"I don't know if I like music."
The sentence lands between them like a dropped object.
Heavy.
Real.
She rushes to clarify.
"I can play it. I can structure it. I can improve it."
A small breath.
"I don't know if I want it."
Silence follows.
Longer this time.
Axel does not correct her.
Does not defend music.
Does not defend himself.
Euphony Trio was his dream.
He has more reason than anyone to take that personally.
He doesn't.
He just says, quietly:
"Okay."
Not agreement.
Not dismissal.
Just space.
Laura waits for argument.
For reassurance.
For urgency.
None comes.
He is not trying to solve her.
He is not reframing her doubt.
He is not offering a motivational speech.
He is listening.
Fully.
Without trying to steer.
That is new.
No one listened in her childhood.
They corrected.
They refined.
They demanded improvement.
Axel is not correcting.
He is absorbing.
"I don't know what that means," she adds finally.
Her voice is softer now.
Less controlled.
"I don't know if something is wrong with me."
Axel shakes his head once.
"Nothing's wrong with you."
He says it evenly.
Without overemphasis.
As if it is a simple fact.
Laura studies that statement.
He doesn't say:
"You'll be fine."
"You're overthinking."
"It's just stress."
He doesn't try to anchor her to productivity.
He doesn't say:
"You can't quit."
He just removes the implication of defect.
Nothing's wrong with you.
That sentence feels heavier than diagnosis.
She exhales slowly.
The heaviness in her chest shifts again.
Not gone.
But less sharp.
She has said it.
All of it.
Out loud.
And Axel is still here.
Still steady.
Still not trying to fix her.
Laura looks at her hands in the dim light.
They are the same hands that have played flawlessly for years.
Nothing visible has changed.
And yet—
She does not feel required to justify their existence.