Cold air hit my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I pulled my black hoodie tighter, tugging the sleeves down to cover my fingers like I was trying to disappear into the fabric. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, hoping the aggressive scent of hospital-grade lavender would magically fix my life. Spoiler: it did not.
The room was sterile and painfully bright—so aggressively white it felt like the walls were trying to bleach away my bad decisions. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock, each second echoing louder than the last, entirely indifferent to my dignity.
I was still stuck here.
I lifted my gaze from my lap, and there he was—Dr. Skyrim. His eyes met mine, deep and warm like dark coffee, the exact kind of caffeine I did not need right now. His long, black hair framed his face like a dark halo, giving him an unfairly aesthetic presence for a Tuesday afternoon. He was in his late twenties, looking serene and completely put-together, a stark contrast to the emotional dumpster fire sitting across from him. A faint blush tinged his cheeks—the only sign he wasn't actually a statue. He wore a simple white shirt, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to be distracting, carrying himself with an ease that was both comforting and deeply irritating.
He offered me a gentle smile, the kind that made you feel like you were being seen without judgment. Which was rude, honestly, because I definitely deserved a little judgment for my dating choices.
My pulse kicked up anyway. "Do I have to talk more about him?"
My voice wavered, and a traitorous tear slipped down my cheek. Great. Crying over one guy in front of an objectively gorgeous stranger. Peak performance, Grey. This was supposed to help—all the advice, all the gentle nodding. None of it worked.
The room fell silent after my words, the ticking clock suddenly deafening.
"You don't have to talk about anything you aren't ready to discuss, Grey," he said. His voice was smooth and melodic, a stark contrast to the jagged edges of my thoughts. "We go at your pace."
I glanced at the brass nameplate on the desk behind him. Dr. Skyrim.
The whole situation tasted like cheap coffee and regret. He wasn't even my therapist. He was my mother's coworker. She worked as a nurse at this hospital, and he was the visiting consultant who dropped in twice a week to dispense wisdom. I never asked for a session. I didn't need saving. My mother, however, saw me moping around the house and decided I was crumbling under "academic pressure."
She had no idea. She had no idea that my grades were fine, and that the real reason I looked like a Victorian ghost was a completely different man—the one who had waltzed into my life, wrecked everything, and left me emotionally stranded on the floor of my own bedroom.
"Dealing with one-sided love can be incredibly challenging," Dr. Skyrim began, his tone careful—clinical, yet annoyingly soft.
"No, you really don't get it," I cut him off, my voice trembling as my volume climbed. "Loving someone who doesn't love you back? That's one thing. That's just tragic and slightly embarrassing. But thinking someone loves you? Believing it? Feeling it? And then… bam." I slapped my palm against the arm of the chair, the crack echoing through the sterile room. "It all comes crashing down. That's not heartbreak. It's like being erased. And it hurts like hell."
My throat tightened, the words scraping on the way out. My hands shook as the memory flashed—the warmth of his voice, the weight of his hands, and the sudden, freezing void where a person used to be.
"You can't preach about it until you've survived it yourself," I muttered.
The worst part? I used to be the person who rolled her eyes at dramatic heartbreak. I thought the math was simple: if someone doesn't treat you right, you walk away. Easy. Done.
Turns out, I am an idiot. When someone reels you in with promises and makes you believe you're the exception to every rule, walking away feels less like a choice and more like losing a limb.
I grabbed the glass of water Dr. Skyrim had left on the side table, desperate for something to do with my shaking hands. I took a few gulps and set it down, trying to pull myself back together.
His gaze never wavered. He sat there, endlessly patient, looking at me like he had all the time in the world.
"You're spiraling," he said softly.
"I am processing," I corrected, though my voice lacked bite.
"Your mind is racing with what-ifs and regrets," he continued, ignoring my interruption with a faint, knowing tilt of his lips. "You're replaying every scene, trying to edit the ending. Listen to me, Grey—you cannot keep blaming yourself for someone else's inability to love you the way you deserve." He paused, his voice dropping into a warmer register that made my stomach do a very unwelcome flip. "You'll get through this. I know you will. You're resilient."
His words wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, warm and disarming, even if my pride refused to accept them.
"It's okay to be angry," he added steadily. "It's okay to be sad, or confused, or furious at him right now. What matters is that you don't carry it alone. I'm here for you. Always."
Silence settled over the room again, though this time it didn't feel quite so suffocating. The hum of the heater and the relentless ticking of the clock faded into white noise.
I didn't have the energy to argue. I didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed anymore. So I just nodded.
Dr. Skyrim was right about one thing: the ache wasn't going away anytime soon, and the hole my ex left behind wasn't magically closing overnight.
But sitting across from a man who smelled faintly of cedarwood and patience, I figured maybe—just maybe—I could survive the awkwardness long enough to start moving on.