The room smelled faintly of lavender.
Zara sat on the soft beige couch, her fingers twisting the hem of her long-sleeved blouse.
Dr. Phoebe Marsh, the middle-aged therapist, didn't speak at first. She simply sat with her—hands resting on a notepad, a kind gaze behind her glasses.
Zara glanced at the clock. "It's only been two minutes?"
Phoebe gave a warm, patient smile. "Time can feel strange in here. You're safe."
Zara looked down at her hands. Her knuckles had gone pale from how tightly she was gripping the fabric. She slowly loosened them, exhaled, and said quietly, "This feels weird. I don't know where to start."
"You don't have to start with the event," Phoebe said gently. "We can begin with what's happening now. What's bothering you this week?"
Zara let out a small chuckle. "You wouldn't want to go there. It's beyond your work scope."
Phoebe smiled. "Ace told me you're going through a lot right now."
