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What no one ever told me is that therapy is war. And while Judith is the one I feel like I’m waging war against, I know it’s actually me battling against myself.

It’s uncomfortable. Painful. And though I’m sure Judith hears all kinds of stories, I can’t help feeling humiliated by mine.

The only reason I still come every week is because I prepaid for a package her practice offered through a Facebook ad. That should have been a red flag to me. Something as serious as mental health shouldn’t come in prepaid discount packages advertised on social media.

But also … I want to, at some point in my life, be able to leave Serendipity Springs again.

Judith clears her throat and adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her tiny, perfect nose. She has the adorable, pert features of a Disney cartoon. One of the nice side characters who helps the main character on their journey. She also has all the doggedness of a bloodhound following the scent of all my secrets.

I sigh again and turn to study the curtains, which are a thin, multicolored fabric that clashes with the more traditionalmaroon rug and the handful of bright bean bag chairs scattered around. I asked Judith once about the decor of the room. It’s a sunny addition on the back of a small house she repurposed into a therapy practice.

“I like to mix things up,” she answered. “It may not match, but having different styles is inviting. There are more options for people to relate to, which might make different kinds of people feel at home.”

There’s nothing in this room I relate to. Not even the gorgeous midcentury modern chairs Judith and I are currently sitting in for our face-off. Sophie would love them. And while I appreciate them, they’re too stiff for comfort, the wooden legs too aggressively pointy.

But I’m not sure any decor would make me feel more comfortable in this situation.

“So,” Judith begins, as she always does. “How have things been since our last session?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mutter, wondering what she’d say if I started off by telling her my closet transported me across a building and up two floors.

“Pardon?”

Judith leans forward with interest, resting pointy elbows on spindly knees. I’ve tried to pinpoint her age, but so far, I have failed to narrow it down to a specific decade. She has few visible wrinkles, but her short hair is solid white. She chooses a nondescript wardrobe of black or navy pants paired with a solid-colored blouse. No jewelry, save for a simple diamond with a platinum band. She’s thoughtful and kind but with a sassy edge that makes herreal.

I think if I met her in any other context, I’d really like her.

But in this room, Judith is trying to make me talk about things I don’t want to talk about. Which means Ican’tlike her.

“A lot happened,” I say. “I’m not sure an hour will be enough time to cover it.”

Forty-nine minutes now, but who’s counting?

“I’d love for you to try.”

Well, she asked for it.

Leaving out the part about how my closet has some kind of fickle magic transportation powers, I back my struggle bus up and unload on Judith.

Meeting the grumpy new building owner, surviving a possum attack, the death of my business thanks to the same new building owner, running into my newly engaged ex and my former friend who’s now his fiancée. I end with my new job, which I’m shocked to find I like.

One of the other things that bugs me about therapy is that though I’m expected to shareeverything, Judith is a vault. It’s rare to get any reaction from her aside from the occasional encouraging smile.

But today I get two: a softhumphwhen I recount the grocery store encounter with Trey and Mel, and a curioushmmat the mention of my new job working for Archer.

“So, you know, just a typical week,” I say.

“I’m not suretypicalis the word I’d use.” Judith raises a sculpted white brow.

“What word would you use?”

“What’s another wordyoumight use?” she counters. “Aside from typical.”

Ugh. Judith asks so many questions. Which is, I guess, her job. But still.

“I might say …stupid. Dramatic. Ridiculous.” I pause, thinking about this week. “But not boring.”

She smiles. “Definitely not boring. You almost seem”—Judith tilts her head, examining me—“energized talking about it.”