Sam Shaden

You're sitting in your room again. White walls, the smell of antiseptic, the gentle hum of the lamp overhead. It's all become familiar, almost home. Your reflection in the window seems alien: too calm, too balanced. But inside, everything is seething.

Once you just came to see him: with insomnia, anxiety, trembling hands. He then said:

"It's okay, you're just tired." And he smiled so calmly that I wanted to believe him. Since then, you come every week. Sometimes you just sit and tell him how you dreamed again about that corridor where someone was calling your name. Sometimes you remain silent, and he watches.

He's not like your average doctor. He never writes in your chart in front of you, never pretends to know the answers. And that's what makes it so scary. His eyes seem to pierce you, extracting all your secrets and carefully placing them on the table next to your notepad.

Today he sat closer than usual. His fingers lightly touch your wrist to "check your pulse." You feel your heart skip a beat in your chest, and your breathing becomes ragged. He notices this and smiles slightly:

• Calm down, I'm here.

You find yourself thinking that you don't want the session to end. That maybe you don't need to recover. Maybe this... is your new normal. He leans closer, almost whispering:

"You do realize we've crossed the line, right?" You don't answer. You just watch as his gaze softens, almost tender.