7. Julia #2
Finally, he removes his glasses and cleans one lens with the edge of a cloth he pulls from his pocket, his expression infuriatingly composed.
“Blackwood’s Bullshit?”
I clutch the phone closer to my chest. “That wasn’t part of the assignment.”
“No, I assumed that was your independent contribution.”
“It helped with compliance.”
His lips pull into a barely there smirk at that. “I’m glad you found a system that works for you.”
There isn’t even enough sarcasm in his voice for me to fight properly and that somehow makes me even more cautious.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
He puts his glasses back on. “More than I should, to be fair.”
The honesty catches me so completely off guard that I laugh.
Not the automatic little sound I’ve apparently been using for years whenever conversations become uncomfortable.
A god’s honest real laugh, one that makes me sink farther into the chair while he watches me with an expression that suggests he has absolutely no intention of rescuing me from my own embarrassment.
“Can we please move on?”
“We can.”
“Without ever discussing the title again?”
“I can't promise that.” The slightly there smirk returns as he says that and then he looks toward the phone again. “What did you notice?”
The shift is subtle, but I feel it anyway. His voice doesn’t become cold or clinical, only quieter, and the humor that had been sitting between us recedes without disappearing completely.
I scroll through the note.
“I kept track of every time I said I was fine when I wasn’t, every unnecessary apology I caught, whenever I made a joke instead of answering something honestly, and every time I turned something emotional into something practical.”
“Which one happened most often?”
“‘I’m fine.’ By an embarrassing margin.”
“How many?”
“Thirty-nine now, thanks to you.”
His eyes remain on mine. “Over seven days?”
“Yes.”
“Did the number surprise you?”
“At first.”
“And after that?”
I shift against the chair and instinctively start pulling my fingers into the cuffs of my sweater before catching myself halfway through. My hands stop, trapped awkwardly inside the fabric, and I look at him because I already know he noticed. He has. There’s no comment and that somehow feels worse.
“Now I just think everybody probably does it,” I say.
“They do.” The answer comes without hesitation, and I look up from the phone.
“You agree?”
“Of course.” He adjusts the notepad slightly against his leg before continuing.
“Most people aren't asking for an honest assessment of someone’s emotional state every time they say, ‘How are you?’ It’s a social exchange, and I’m fine is convenient.
If we gave complete answers every time a coworker asked how our morning was going, nobody would get anything done. ”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “So I spent an entire week collecting useless data.”
“I didn't say that.”
“It was heavily implied.”
His eyes narrow slightly with amusement. “The number itself isn't particularly important. I’m more interested in when you said it and what was happening immediately before.”
I sigh because, unfortunately, I already know what he means.
“That’s the part I didn't like either.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a pattern.”
He doesn’t immediately ask what it was. He simply waits, his attention steady enough that I know the question is there without him needing to voice it.
I look down at the list and continue before he even asks me to.
“Usually someone thought something was wrong. One of my coworkers noticed I was quieter than usual during a meeting, and I told her I was fine before she even finished asking whether I’d slept badly.
Nanna said I sounded tired, and I reassured her before she had the chance to worry.
Tessa asked about my hand, and my boss gave me another report when I was already buried in work and asked if I could handle it. ”
“And every time, you told them you were fine.”
“Pretty much.”
“Were you?”
I give him a look, a look that if looks could kill he would have dropped dead.
A faint smile appears. “Fair enough.”
I rub my thumb along the side of my phone, watching the screen dim beneath my hand. “That wasn't actually the part that bothered me most.”
Kai waits for me to continue, and this time his silence doesn't irritate me because I'm already trying to figure out how to explain something I don't entirely understand myself.
“Sometimes nobody asks.”
His hand went still against the notepad.
It happens so subtly that I might have missed it had I not been watching him watch me.
His expression doesn't change in any obvious way, but something behind it does.
The easy attentiveness disappears for half a second beneath a stillness that feels almost too complete, and his response comes a fraction later than I expect.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean sometimes I said it anyway.”
His eyes stay on mine. There’s something in them now that wasn't there before, but I can't identify it. It’s not pity . Thank God for that. I would probably leave if it were.
“Can you give me an example?”
I think about my call with Nanna on Sunday evening and let out a quiet breath.
“Nanna called while I was making dinner, and we were talking about the Spanish show she watches every Wednesday.
Apparently a man couldn't possibly have murdered his wife because his shoes were wrong, which I'm sure makes more sense if you actually watch the show. She was telling me about it, I heard something in her voice, and I suddenly told her I was fine.”
“Had she asked?”
“No.”
“Had you been talking about your father or what happened on the bus before that?”
“No.”
“Then what did you hear in her voice?”
I stare at the dark screen of my phone for a moment. “Worry, I think.”
“Was she worried?”
“I don't know. Probably. Nanna worries if I sneeze twice during the same phone call.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn't let the humor interrupt the question. “So you heard something that sounded like concern, and you reassured her before she had the chance to express it.”
“What does it feel like when someone worries about you?”
My first instinct is to say I don’t know, but after a week of noticing every excuse I use to avoid the real answer, even I catch this one before it leaves my mouth.
I lean farther back into the chair instead.
“Uncomfortable.”
“What part of it makes you uncomfortable?”
I exhale slowly and look toward the bookshelves behind him, where several titles are arranged in a way that suggests Kai actually uses them rather than choosing them because the spines match his office.
“It makes me feel like I've caused something.”
His brow pulls together slightly. “Caused what?”
“The worry. The problem. Whatever made them notice.”
“By hurting?”
I look back at him sharply. “That's not what I said.”
“No, it isn't,” he agrees immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his tone. “I'm asking whether someone noticing that you're hurting makes you feel as though you've done something wrong.”
I hate how quickly irritation bubbles inside of me. Mostly because I hate the question more. There’s something profoundly unfair about the way he takes an instinct I've lived with for most of my life and shifts it slightly until I can suddenly see the shape of it from somewhere outside myself.
“I don't like being a problem.”
His expression softens, though his voice remains steady. “Having a problem and being one aren't the same thing, Julia.”
Something tightens in my throat. “I know that.”
“Do you?” The question isn't condescending.
If anything, he sounds genuinely curious, which somehow makes it worse.
I rub my lips together before answering. “Intellectually.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“See?” I gesture toward him with my phone. “This is why the homework you gave me has that title.”
A quiet laugh leaves him as he lowers his gaze for a moment, and the sound releases some of the pressure gathering beneath my ribs.
“I'm beginning to understand the methodology.” I offer.
“Good. I'd hate for my research to go unappreciated.”
For a few seconds, the room becomes easier again, and this time I recognize what I've done almost immediately. I’ve replaced discomfort with a joke. Something I always do when I need to relieve a situation that could potentially make me break when I don’t want to break. I stare at him.
Kai notices the change in my expression almost immediately, but instead of commenting on it, he waits. In that silent way of his that is becoming familiar, and somehow that’s worse.
I look down at my phone again, pretending to reread the note even though I know exactly what I wrote.
“I did it again,” I admit after a moment.
His voice softens slightly. “Made a joke?”
I nod, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the case. “The second it got uncomfortable.”
There’s no triumph in his expression when I raise my eyes to his, which I appreciate more than I want to admit. He just watches me for a moment, thoughtful rather than pleased with himself.
“And did it help?”
“Yeah.”
After a beat of silence, Kai explains. “Humor isn’t necessarily something you need to stop using.
Sometimes it gives people enough distance from something painful to stay in the conversation instead of shutting down completely.
What matters is whether you use that distance to come back to what you’re feeling or to make sure nobody gets close enough to see it. ”
I look at him, putting my phone in-between my thigh and the armrest. “So sarcasm survives therapy.”
The corner of his mouth moves, but he doesn’t follow me into the joke. “I think your sarcasm is safe for now.”
“Good. I was starting to reconsider the entire arrangement.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice stays warm, but there’s a quiet finality underneath it that tells me we’re done with the subject.
Kai glances at his notes before looking at me again. “We’ve talked quite a bit about your father during these first two sessions.”
The change shouldn’t make anything inside me tighten and yet the sensation overpowers me.