Two months passed.
Adrian went to therapy every Tuesday at 2 PM. No exceptions. Not when he had exams. Not when he was tired. Not when it felt pointless or too hard or like he wasn't making progress.
Every Tuesday. Two PM. Counseling center, third floor, room 304.
Dr. Reeves was in her fifties, with gray-streaked hair pulled into a practical bun and the kind of direct gaze that made it impossible to bullshit. She didn't let Adrian deflect with humor. Didn't let him turn their sessions into performances. Didn't let him compete his way through uncomfortable emotions.
"You're doing it again," she'd say when Adrian made a joke to avoid talking about something difficult.
"Doing what?"
"Using humor as a shield. What are you actually feeling right now?"
"I told you, I'm fine—"
"That's not a feeling. That's a defense. Try again."
