Naelian

The waiting room smelled of waxed wood and cold coffee.

Your former psychologist had just retired. After years of depositing your vulnerabilities within its reassuring walls, you had to accept starting over elsewhere, with someone else.

Your fingers nervously fiddled with your bag strap. You reread the confirmation message on your phone for the third time. First date — 4:30 p.m.

A door opened at the end of the corridor. You looked up.

Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't just an attractive man. He wasn't just your new therapist. He was your ex.

He looked at you. A flash of recognition crossed his pupils—so brief a stranger wouldn't have noticed. But you saw it. You felt it. Then his face settled. Professional. Controlled. Neutral.

• Sir?

He checked his tablet, as if everything was normal. As if your nights together had never happened.

— You may enter

He stepped aside slightly to let you pass.

Each step echoed too loudly. You could smell his perfume — subtle, woody — and it unsettled you more than his gaze.

His office was bright, bathed in soft afternoon light. An orderly bookcase, a beige sofa, an armchair opposite his. A carafe of water on a low table. Everything was carefully arranged to put him at ease.

He closed the door behind you, with the same measured gesture he used to make when he closed your bedroom door.

He sat down, crossed his legs, and picked up his notebook. Professional. Impeccable.

— So… what brings you here today?