The next morning felt different, though I couldn't pinpoint why. The air in my room seemed lighter, as though the act of writing about my father had exorcised some unseen weight. I sat at my desk, staring at the notebook. For the first time in months, I wasn't tempted to add to the pages of meticulously detailed plans.
Instead, I opened to the blank page following my words about my father.
I began sketching again.
This time, the drawing took on a life of its own. It wasn't the park or the laughter of my childhood, but something rawer. A faceless boy stood at the edge of a dark forest, his outline sharp against the smudged trees. The forest was alive, its shadows twisting into vague shapes, watching him. The boy's posture was tense yet curious, as though he couldn't decide whether to step forward or run.
When I finished, I sat back, my hands smudged with graphite. The image unsettled me, but it felt honest in a way I hadn't experienced before.
Dr. Price noticed the change in me immediately when I arrived for our session that week.
"You seem quieter today," she said, her voice calm. "But not in a bad way. What's on your mind?"
I hesitated before pulling the sketch from my bag and handing it to her. She studied it for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"This is powerful," she said finally. "Can you tell me about it?"
I shrugged, unsure of how to explain. "It's just… how I feel, I guess. Like I'm standing on the edge of something. I don't know if I want to go in or not."
She nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "The forest—it's dark, but there's a pull to it, isn't there? Like it holds answers, even if those answers are unsettling."
Her words resonated, though they unnerved me. "Yeah," I said quietly. "That's exactly it."
She set the sketch down gently. "It's a good place to start, Psychobi. Acknowledging the pull, the tension. It means you're paying attention to what's inside you, even if it's uncomfortable."
I frowned, unsure how to feel about her interpretation. "But what if what's inside me is… bad? What if it's something I shouldn't look at?"
Her eyes softened. "We all have parts of ourselves that feel dark or dangerous. But ignoring them doesn't make them go away. Facing them, understanding them—that's how we take control. That's how we grow."
Her words lingered with me long after the session ended.
Mara texted me again that evening: "Thanks for meeting up the other day. Let's do it again soon?"
I stared at the message, the tension between isolation and connection pulling at me. After a moment, I replied: "Yeah, maybe."
Her response came almost immediately: "Looking forward to it. Take care of yourself, okay?"
I didn't reply, but her words stayed with me.
That night, I found myself in the park where my father used to take me. It was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt both peaceful and eerie. I sat on a bench near the playground, watching the faint sway of the swings in the breeze.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and let myself imagine him there, his laughter filling the air. The memory was faint, but it felt real enough to bring a tightness to my chest.
When I opened my eyes, I noticed something strange. A small notebook lay abandoned on the bench beside me. Curious, I picked it up and flipped through its pages.
It was a sketchbook, filled with drawings—some detailed, others rough. The images were varied: a woman reading by a window, a child chasing a kite, a forest much like the one I had drawn earlier.
One sketch near the back caught my attention. It depicted a lone figure standing in the rain, their face obscured by a hood. Something about the image struck a chord deep within me.
I slipped the notebook into my bag, unsure why I felt compelled to keep it. Maybe it was the connection I felt to the drawings, or maybe it was something else entirely.
Back at home, I stared at the sketchbook, my own notebook lying beside it. For the first time, I felt an inkling of curiosity about something beyond myself.
Who had drawn these? What were their stories?
The thought was small, almost insignificant. But it felt like the first step into a forest I wasn't sure I was ready to explore.
For now, I left the sketchbook on my desk, its presence a quiet reminder that the world was bigger than my darkness.
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