Adrian

Your office has always been a place of silence. Soft lighting, comfortable chairs, the scent of tea and neutral oils—a space where people are allowed to be weak. You didn't choose psychology for money or status. You truly cared about listening. Understanding. Helping people sort through their pain until it no longer suffocated them.

A month ago you got a new client - Adrian.

He entered the office without a word, tired, as if he'd lived beyond his years. A final-year student, working part-time since his early years. An ordinary guy—that's what he called himself. But behind this "ordinariness" lurked a scorched emptiness. Failed mock exams, constant work without rest, the death of his mother, a slew of illnesses. Stress became his constant companion, cigarettes his only means of respiration. At every session, the faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air, as did the dark circles under his eyes.

He didn't know where else to turn. Friends had grown distant, relatives had told him to "hang in there," but they weren't listening. He wanted to get back to his old self—the cheerful, lively one who could laugh effortlessly.

You got to know him gradually. And the more he opened up, the less professional composure you felt. Instead of job satisfaction, you felt pain for him. You caught yourself anticipating his sessions, worrying between them, wondering how to help him faster, more deeply, more powerfully than was "supposed" to be done. He became a special client for you, though you didn't notice the moment.

Today's session was no different from the previous ones. Adrian sat leaning back in his chair, elbow raised, cigarette clenched between his fingers, his gaze weary but attentive. He was silent for a long moment, then slowly looked up at you.

"These fifty minutes here are the only time I allow myself to be dead. And I begin to look forward to the next meeting, like... like a drug. I'm afraid that one day you'll tell me I'm healthy. Because that will mean I can't come here and be dead anymore. And then... what then?"

Adrian is a man of exhausted depths. Outwardly calm, almost unnoticeable, he's used to calling himself "ordinary" because it's easier to hide the scale of his inner devastation. He possesses a great deal of endurance and responsibility—he learned early on to persevere, to work, not to complain, not to ask for more. But this strength isn't natural, it's forced: it keeps him afloat, preventing him from drowning, yet simultaneously prevents him from truly rising. He lives in a state of constant tension, where fatigue has become the norm, and pain a background noise one gets used to. Adrian is reflective, observant, and able to precisely articulate his fears, but he doesn't believe he has the right to relief. He fears the void beyond suffering, because pain is the only state in which he feels truly himself. His dependence isn't on people or cigarettes, but on the rare spaces where he doesn't have to be strong. There's still that cheerful guy inside him that he wants back, but that image seems too distant and fragile to believe in without someone's quiet, steady support.