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I hadn’t planned to come back.

Not after the leak.

Not after the backlash.

But here I am.

Same couch. Same zen-as-hell little bonsai tree on the windowsill. Same therapist who knows too much and says too little.

It has been two weeks since I ghosted our last scheduled session. I blamed “schedule conflicts,” which was generous. The real conflict was existential: I didn’t know if I could still talk about feelings without auto-translating them into hashtags and public shame.

But I came back anyway. Because the silence was starting to sound like him.

Dr. Lisa didn’t comment on my absence. She just gestured to the couch and asked, “Tea?”

I shook my head. “Tea feels a bit... loaded right now.”

And just like that, we are back.

Sort of.

Not really.

But enough.

I’d just finished my two-week highlight reel—leak, shame spiral, ego in rehab—and she’d been nodding along like someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture using a horoscope .

But her pen paused mid-word, like it had been waiting for me to stop talking.

I narrow my eyes. “Okay, how long have you been sitting on a comment you swore you wouldn’t interrupt with?”

She seems to hesitate. “Emily. Can I ask you a question that’s... not clinical?”

“That’s already a red flag.”

She folds her hands. “This man you’ve been describing—the one from the dreams, the tea visit, the one you thought published the audios. His name is Adrian?”

I blinked. “...yes?”

“And he goes by Adrian Zayne. Publicly.”

I give her the side-eye of doom. “Lisa. Why do you look like someone who just solved a murder and realized it was their dog?”

She takes off her glasses.

No. No no no.

“Emily,” she says gently. “That’s my son.”

Silence.

Like the world hiccupped.

I blink once.

“Your son ? You are Adrian’s mother?”

She nods, face surprisingly calm for a woman who just found out her son had a starring role in my unsanctioned audio porn.

“Adrian Zayne is his brand name. But yes.”

“And you’ve been giving me... advice. On how to navigate my feelings. About your son.” I whispered again. “This is unethical. This is Greek tragedy unethical. We’re two monologues away from a Euripides reboot. ”

I drop my face into my hands. “You’re supposed to disclose these things.”

“I didn’t realize it was Andrew. Until people started tagging him on these leaked audios.”

“Oh my God. So what do we do now?”

She shrugs, as zen as her bonsai tree. “I can step down after this session if you want to. But you still need someone neutral to talk to.”

“You’re not neutral! You made him.”

She smiles. “Not alone.”

I squint at her. “Well, you and his father created a man who can gaslight the entire internet.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You also said he made you feel seen.”

I groan. “I say a lot of things. Some of them are jokes. Some are just... despair in a cute outfit.”

Her brows rise. “And which one is this?”

“This?” I give her a dry look. “The latter, obviously.”

I shift on the couch, suddenly too aware of how long I’d been talking. “But seriously,” I add, voice lighter than I felt, “was there a moment—just a flicker—when you thought, ‘Wow, my son really broke this girl’s brain. Go me!’?”

Lisa doesn’t laugh. “No. But I did think, ‘She’s brave.’”

That does make me laugh. A soft, incredulous sound. “I’m not brave,” I say. “I’m horny and poorly supervised.”

Lisa smiles at that, but doesn't interrupt. She always gives space when I start spiraling into honesty.

“You’re also honest,” she says eventually. “Even when it hurts. ”

I exhale. “Yeah, well. It hurts a lot.” I press a finger to my temple. “I always thought if I kept things clever and curated, I’d stay safe. But I wasn’t safe. I was just... branding my loneliness.”

A pause. A longer one.

“And now?” she asks gently.

“Now I can’t unknow what I want.” The words come out quieter than I expected. And a little shakier.

She nods. “And that scares you more than the leak?”

I let out a dry laugh. “At least the leak got me views.”

I look down at my hands. “I keep thinking about how it sounded. That voice memo.”

Dr. Lisa waits.

“I wasn’t performing,” I say slowly. “I wasn’t filtered. I wasn’t even fully awake. And somehow that version of me got broadcast like a TED Talk for horny insomniacs.”

Lisa’s lips twitch. “And how did that feel?”

“Like I got pantsed in public. By myself. In hi-fi stereo.”

She nods again. “But he didn’t use it against you.”

“No.” I swallow. “And that’s the part that wrecks me. He didn’t mock it. Didn’t quote it. Didn’t even meme it. He just... disappeared. Like some noble raccoon returning the trash it stole.”

Dr. Lisa doesn’t laugh at that one either. Just says, “Maybe he was overwhelmed.”

“Oh, definitely. Nothing terrifies a man more than intimacy and good audio quality.”

Now she does smile. And I can tell it’s not just a therapist smile. It’s a mom smile. And I’m not sure which one is more dangerous.

“He may surprise you,” she says. “Eventually. ”

I squint at her. “Are you... hinting? Is this, like, woman-to-woman telepathy or something?”

She gives me that maddeningly serene expression again. “Let’s just say I know how long it usually takes him to have a feeling. And then google it. And then maybe act on it.”

I snort. “So I just sit here and manifest?”

“No. You go live your life. On purpose.”

She pauses, then adds, “He’s like a GPS. Brilliant at telling everyone else where to go, but absolutely hopeless when he’s the one who’s lost.”

I stare at her. “So I fell for an emotionally unavailable Garmin.”

“Give it time,” she says, smiling again.

And this time, I can’t help it—I smile back.