Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Red
The door closes behind her with a muted click, precise and final, and I remain seated where I was when she stood. My posture's composed, my hands folded on the desk, waiting for her to turn around and come back in.
Where are you, Bluebird?
What am I saying?
The silence stretches, heavy and watchful. I take ten slow breaths. Then ten more, but my body refuses to calm.
The office hasn't changed, but the space feels tighter, like it's holding onto something that shouldn't linger.
The couch across from me is empty, the cushion faintly indented where she sat.
I don't look at it for long. I change my focus to the desk, the legal pad, and the neatness of my handwriting.
The pressure of the pen was excessive.
Irritation hits me as I notice the random circles of ink on letters.
Control matters now more than ever. Blue finally had a real session with me, and we made progress, even if she can't see it yet.
I lean back in my chair and finally allow myself to exhale fully. My pulse stays elevated, annoyingly insistent.
Adrenaline, I tell myself.
It's not atypical for me to have a burst of endorphins. A difficult session will spark it. Emotional disclosures always increase my physiological response. But what is unusual is the relief sitting in my chest.
She didn't hurt herself.
The words replay, unwanted and persistent. I didn't ask for that information. She offered it, almost cautiously, like she was gauging my reaction. I should have redirected immediately, clarified motivation, and assessed risk without reinforcement.
Instead, something in me steadied when she said it.
The response wasn't neutral, and I won't lie to myself.
I should put my notes into my computer and move on, but I open her file and stare at Blue Ivanov at the top of the first sheet, scolding myself how even her name is familiar in a way it shouldn't be.
I tear my eyes off it, scan earlier notes, and the clean language from the beginning. Impulse control issues, maladaptive coping strategies, and affective instability glare at me. It's straightforward and manageable, but then I look at my notes from our session, and my stomach clenches.
Today's documentation is more detailed and thorough, to the point of overcorrection.
I cataloged her admissions carefully and ensured every phrase was clinically sound: withdrawal sensitivity, externalized regulation, fixation on authority figures.
It's all accurate and defensible. Yet none of them captures the reality of how easily she settled when I drew the line, and she accepted my terms.
That part should be in the file, but I don't dare put it in.
Her attachment has shifted. It's now on me, and she's trying to keep me and please me. Therapy should be about her desire to help herself. Instead, she dug into wounds to keep me.
The awareness moves through me like a current in a sharp, fast, and undeniable loop.
My chest tightens, not with alarm but with something cleaner and more dangerous.
The sudden clarity snaps everything into alignment.
I sit straighter without meaning to, my spine locking into place as if my body has recognized a threat or an opportunity and can't decide which.
She isn't just attached. She's oriented.
Toward me.
I close the folder and press my thumb into the edge of the desk, grounding myself in the pressure. This is why I forced the choice at the beginning of the session. I needed to see which way she would go when presented with a real consequence.
She chose to stay.
The thought lands with weight, subtle but undeniable. I don't allow satisfaction to surface and take shape. But something inside me eases, and that alone is enough to irritate me.
Obedience should not be grounding.
And yet, when she agreed—when she straightened her posture, met my gaze, and said okay without deflection or challenge—the volatility in the room diminished instantly. Her anxiety quieted. My own followed. And that dynamic is dangerous.
I scrub a hand over my face and stand, moving toward the window. The city below is orderly, predictable. Cars move through intersections on unspoken rules. There are no blurred lines or ethical tension. I envy it briefly.
She framed me as the thing that stopped her.
For once, she wasn't dramatic or manipulative in our session. She stated facts, didn't lie, and got vulnerable when it wasn't sexual.
I handled it appropriately, redirected, and clarified that her safety cannot hinge on another person. And yet...
I close my eyes, letting more truth sink in. The relief I felt didn't come from professional validation. It came from impact and influence, and it settles uncomfortably in my chest.
Brax.
His face pops up in my mind, and my eyes fly open, wanting to escape the image. His name alone irritates me, and it shouldn't. I attempt to push it away, but I can't help reflecting on the way I paused my pen immediately when his name came across her lips.
Jealousy isn't the right word. That would imply emotion without structure. My annoyance is something colder. Someone else once occupied the space of fixation she now places on me.
He didn't want her.
What kind of fool doesn't want her?
What am I saying?
I need to find her another therapist. I'm in too deep.
I helped her today.
The idea of her sitting across from another therapist, and especially another man, guiding her regulation, interpreting her disclosures, receiving the focus she gives me, lands sharp and misaligned.
I can find her a female therapist.
She's the most intriguing woman I've ever met.
She's struggling and needs help.
It doesn't change how extraordinary she is.
"Fuck," I mutter, return to my desk and sit, opening a blank email draft before I can reconsider referring her out. It's the only right thing to do. My objectivity is compromised.
I type Referral in the subject line, then pause.
Names surface automatically, all colleagues I respect.
But none of them feels right. They're too detached, inexperienced, or likely to misinterpret her volatility as manipulation or attention-seeking rather than what it is.
She requires structure and precision. She needs a therapist who won't indulge or withdraw.
Someone like—
I stop typing, delete the subject line, and close the draft without saving it. Instead, I open my notes again and add a brief entry outlining continued treatment justification, increased structure, clear expectations, firm authority, and the need for professional distance.
I read it twice, ensuring the language is clean enough to convince anyone reviewing it, including myself. But the reality is simpler and more troubling.
Blue responds to decisiveness.
Her anxiety decreases when I don't negotiate, soften, or emotionally fluctuate.
I allow the thought to settle in quietly, fully formed, and I don't reject it because I chose structure over distance today. I commit to continuing to do so, and not because I want her dependence, but because allowing instability would be irresponsible.
That justification holds. So I test it again, insisting to myself that it's stable and the way to move forward.
I gather my files, restore the office to order, and prepare for my morning session like nothing has shifted. But as I turn off the light to leave, one truth remains, steady and undeniable beneath the professional calm.
Blue's no longer a neutral presence in my work. And I'm no longer unaffected by her.
I lock my office door behind me and step into the hallway. The day should be over, but I can't leave my work at the office. I can with other patients, but not with her, and it's another strike against me.
I adjust my jacket as I walk, my thoughts continuing to circle back to her despite every effort to redirect them.
The elevator doors slide shut. I exhale slowly and stare at the brushed metal wall, counting breaths the way I've taught a hundred patients to do.
My body refuses to settle. There's a low hum beneath my skin, like static waiting for a discharge.
A Bluebird chirp blasts out in the elevator.
My pulse spikes, and I place my hand in my pocket, pressing my phone against my leg.
The policy is clear. No contact outside sessions unless clinically appropriate. I reinforced it not an hour ago.
The phone chirps again.
I close my eyes briefly, then pull it out, with irritation flickering, but it's directed squarely at myself. I should be able to not answer. Instead, I dive headfirst, dying to know what she's sent me.
Blue: I have some follow-up questions from today. I don't want to cross a line. Is it okay if I text you?
The elevator continues its descent. My thumb hovers above the screen.
She asked.
She didn't assume access. She didn't push past the boundary. She requested permission, careful and restrained, exactly as instructed.
A sharp, unwelcome surge moves through my chest. Not panic or concern but something I don't want to acknowledge. I wait until the elevator opens and I'm walking through the lobby before responding.
Me: If this is about your safety or something urgent, yes. Otherwise, we'll discuss it next session.
I send the message and slip the phone back into my pocket, telling myself that's sufficient. I'm sure we'll deal with it in our next session.
The air outside is cold against my face. I welcome it, and the bite of it grounds me as I head toward my car.
My phone chirps again. I pull it out of my pocket and freeze. There's no text preview, just an image.
My jaw tightens, and I unlock the screen. The photo fills my phone, making my heart sink.
Blue's stomach, pale beneath soft lighting, with a dozen red pin marks, tells a story without saying it aloud.
Me: Did you just do this?
Blue: Yes. I'm sorry. I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to use a knife, but thought the pins were safer.
I squeeze the phone tighter, peering closer at the dots of blood on her stomach.