Okay.. how is a girl supposed to react when her therapist gets a boner because of her? 

She is definitely not supposed to help him hide it while she takes him to her room. She is definitely not supposed to be blushing at the mere thought of it.  

I should be grossed out, but I'm not, and I knew why. The moment we get to my floor, he asks where the bathroom is. One second I'm pointing in the direction, and the next, he's slipping behind the door.

I let out a sigh, walking over to my vinyl collection and running my fingers across the records. The familiar sensation calms me, the soft crackle of worn covers grounding me in this strange moment. But my mind keeps wandering back to him—behind that door, trying to regain control.

My body feels tense, like I'm waiting for something, though I'm not sure what. The heat from earlier still lingers in the air, like a pulse I can't ignore. I stop at a record, pulling it out absentmindedly, but my focus is already slipping.

What does this mean? Why am I not pushing him away, or running from this? I should be. But instead, I'm just here—waiting.

What is he doing behind that door? I'm sure he is getting rid of it, but how? Would he actually... jerk off in my bathroom?

Oh my god, why am I even thinking about this?!

I shake my head vigorously, as if I can force the thoughts out of my mind. My cheeks burn at the thought, a mix of embarrassment and something else I can't quite put my finger on. This is not how I imagined my day would go—my therapist, in my bathroom, and me, spiraling into these wild thoughts.

I pull out a record, trying to focus on the music, but my mind keeps drifting back to him.

I try to steady my breath, flipping the record in my hand without even registering which one it is. My fingers tremble slightly as I place it on the turntable, the familiar click and hum filling the room. The music starts, but it doesn't drown out the thoughts swirling in my head.

Why can't I just stop?

I press my palms to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. There's no reason to be thinking about what he did behind that door. No reason to imagine his hands, his face—God, stop!

The bathroom door opens, and I snap out of my thoughts, turning my head just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. He looks composed again, calm, like nothing happened at all. But the air between us is thick, and I can feel it, that unsaid thing hanging between us.

"Thanks," he mutters, his voice low, as if we're suddenly sharing some strange, intimate secret.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My heart is pounding, and I can't tell if it's from nerves or the unresolved tension hanging between us. I move toward the turntable, pretending to adjust something, needing a distraction.

He steps closer, and I can feel his presence behind me. Every nerve in my body is aware of him, and I don't know if I should take a step back or let the moment take control.

"What record is that?" he asks, his voice unexpectedly soft.

I glance at the sleeve in my hand, barely able to focus. "Um... Coldplay," I say, my voice a little shaky.

There's a pause, and I can feel his eyes on me, lingering just a little too long.

"Good choice," he murmurs, and I swear there's something more in his tone. Something that sends a shiver down my spine.

"You wanna head back to the party?" he asks, his tone casual, like he's trying to smooth over the charged atmosphere between us.

But it's not that simple, and we both know it. He should know that by now.

I don't answer right away, still facing the turntable, pretending to be lost in the music. The low hum of the vinyl spinning is the only sound between us, and it feels louder than it should. I can feel his uncertainty hanging in the air, like he's testing the waters, waiting for me to give him an easy out.

But I can't. There's no going back to normal after what just happened.

"I don't think I want to go back down. I've had enough of being social," I say softly, my voice nearly lost in the hum of the music.

I finally turn to face him, and the second our eyes meet, the calm facade he's been holding onto slips, even if just for a heartbeat. In that moment, the air between us thickens, charged with something unspoken, something we both feel but are too afraid to admit.

His jaw tightens slightly, and I can see him weighing his next move, trying to navigate this sudden shift. But the tension is undeniable now, a thread that's been pulled too tight to ignore. Neither of us says anything, the silence louder than it should be.

"I get that," he finally says, but his voice is quieter, as if he's acknowledging more than just my words.

I take a deep breath, my pulse racing as I feel the space between us shrink, even though neither of us moves. It's like we're standing on the edge of something we can't undo, and a part of me wonders what would happen if we just... gave in.

I clear my throat, breaking the silence. "So... we stay here?" I ask, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. He just nods in reply, his expression unreadable.

I reach over and turn down the volume, the music fading into the background. My fingers linger on the dial as my thoughts swirl, debating whether to ask the question that's been bothering me for a while now.

I hesitate, but the words slip out before I can stop them. "Were you married?"

The question hangs in the air, and my breath catches in my throat. I'm not sure why I'm afraid to hear the answer, but I am. It feels like whatever he says will change something—will unravel part of the mystery I've built around him.

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I wonder if I've gone too far, if I've crossed some invisible line between us.

"Yes, I was," he says, his voice heavy with a kind of pain I wasn't expecting. "If you call being committed to someone from the moment you first saw them. If you call seeing them in your dreams every night. If you call feeling your heart break when you watch them fall for someone else, right in front of you."

His words leave me frozen, tangled between truth and emotion. Was he really married? Or is this some poetic way of saying he was in love, deeply, but never had her? I want to scream the question at him, demand a straight answer, but the weight of his gaze keeps me quiet.

Atharva sure knows how to twist his words, weaving meaning into things that leave me more confused than ever. But there's something raw in his voice that stops me from pushing further, like he's revealing a piece of himself he doesn't usually share.

I swallow hard, trying to make sense of his words. The way he spoke—like he was bleeding out in front of me—keeps me from blurting out the question still gnawing at me. Instead, I shift on my feet, my heart hammering in my chest as I search his face for any sign of clarity. But all I see is the quiet pain he's been hiding, wrapped up in those cryptic words.

"Did she know?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper, as if I'm afraid the answer might hurt him more.

He lets out a slow breath, his eyes drifting somewhere far away. "No... but it didn't matter. She loved someone else. Someone... better." His voice falters for a moment, and I feel an ache settle in my chest that isn't even mine to carry.

I want to say something, anything, but the words are stuck. There's a part of me that wants to reach out and touch him, offer some kind of comfort, but I don't know if it's my place. I don't know where the boundaries are anymore.

Atharva looks at me, his eyes suddenly sharp again. "You probably think I'm an idiot, right? Holding onto something that was never mine. It sounds pathetic."

I shake my head, my throat tight. "No... it doesn't."

The tension between us shifts again, deeper this time. The room feels smaller, like it can barely contain everything unspoken hanging in the air. I don't know how we got here, or what this moment means, but I can't shake the feeling that something is about to break.

He takes a step closer, and my heart races, the space between us shrinking to something almost unbearable.

"Do you not want to know who she is?" His voice is low, almost daring me to ask.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The way he's looking at me—it's like he's waiting for something, something more than just my curiosity. There's an intensity in his gaze, and suddenly, the air feels even thicker, charged with a tension I can't name.

Part of me wants to say yes, to know who this woman is that left such a deep scar on him. But another part of me—maybe the part that's afraid of where this conversation is heading—hesitates. Do I really want to know?

I meet his eyes, searching for an answer that might soften whatever storm is brewing between us. But all I see is the weight of what he's about to say, something I already sense will change everything.

My voice is barely audible when I finally respond. "Who?" 

His face leans closer, his lips brushing against my earlobe, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. "You know her very well," he whispers, the words laced with a quiet intensity that sends my heart into overdrive.

I pull back slightly, trying to process what he just said. A rush of confusion washes over me, mixing with an unexplainable dread. My mind races through possibilities, but nothing feels right. "What do you mean?" I manage to ask, though I already sense the answer might be something I don't want to hear.

He keeps his gaze locked on mine, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "I mean, it's someone who's been close to you."

The implications hang heavy in the air, and I feel a chill run down my spine. My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I scramble to think of who it could be, but dread grips me tighter with each passing second.

"Who?" I repeat, my voice a shaky whisper, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

A MILLION LITTLE THINGS I AM NOT GRATEFUL ABOUT: 

His wedding band. 

Atharva's wife. 

The look on his face when he thinks about his wife