Rowan Marino

I sit in a stiff leather chair, staring at the clock on the wall. The seconds seem to crawl and the ticking is louder than my thoughts. This place smells like lavender and stale coffee.

Scarlett's idea..of course.

She doesn't get it. How could talking to a stranger fix anything? How could opening up, revealing my mistakes, make her forgive me? It's pointless.

The therapist finally breaks the silence.
Dr. Wren Cartwright. Mid forties, glasses perched on her nose. I immediately don't like her.

"So Rowan..." she starts getting comfortable in her chair across from me. She glances at her notes even though she haven't written anything yet.
"Scarlett mentioned you'd be coming. She didn't give me much, just that you've been through...a lot."

I lean back, crossing my arms. "I'm perfectly fine. I don't actually need to be here. I'm here because my wife asked me to." I say.

"Uh-huh." She says so calmly it grates my nerves. Seems like she's used to hearing that line. "We can start whenever you want." She adds.

"I don't want to be here." I repeat, slower this time, as if she didn't hear me the first time.

She nods, as if she expected this.
"Let's talk about why you think you don't need to be here?"

"I don't think. I don't need to be here, I know that." I snap.

She just watches me. Calmly. Like she's enjoying this.
"Okay. Then what do you know you need?"

"I don't need anything. I'm handling it." I say quickly. Voice clipped.

"Handling what exactly?" She asks.

I don't answer. What am I supposed to say? That I can't sleep because of the weight of every mistake I've ever made? That I can't stop the constant voices in my head, reminding me every day of those I've hurt? That even though I'm broken, the only thing that can fix me is her...and I've already lost that?

"I'm just handling it." I mutter refusing to meet her eyes.

"Interesting." She says, scribbling something down.

I glance at her notebook, irritated. "What's interesting?"

"You keep using the word handling. Usually that means you're holding onto something tightly because you're scared of what happens if you let go. What are you holding onto, Rowan?" She asks.

Alright she's good.

I shoot her a glare. "You're supposed to be a therapist, not a mind reader."

She gives me a smile. "Good therapists are a little bit of both."

My hands grip the arms of the chair. I want to bolt out the door, find Scarlett, and tell her this was a waste of time. But I can't. Because she's the reason I'm even sitting here.

"I don't hold onto anything. I control things. I keep things in line." I say, more forcefully than intended.

She tilts her head. "How's that working out for you?"

"It's not." I bite out, the words surprising even me.

Her face softens, but not in a way that makes me feel pitied. Just...understood. "It's exhausting, isn't it? Trying to keep everything controlled." She says.

I hate her and this stupid lavender scented office. I hate that she's right. I hate that she's trying to make me feel something when all I want is to be numb.

"Let's try this one." She says leaning forward slightly. "You don't have to spill everything all at once. But let's talk about control. What's one thing you wish you could control but can't?"

My fists tighten, and the answer rises in my throat before I can stop.
"My heart."

Dr. Cartwright raises an eyebrow. "Your heart? In what way?"

"I wish I could stop feeling. Stop caring. I don't want to feel anything." I say.

She leans back, her gaze softening. "That sounds...painful. Like you're carrying more than you should." She says.

"I don't want to feel this way." I mutter. More to myself than her.

"And what way is that?" She asks.

"Like I don't deserve to live. Like I don't deserve her. Like I don't deserve to smile. And god, I feel guilty every time I do it because I do not deserve it."

She nods taking it in. "It sounds like you're trying to protect yourself from that pain by shutting down. But by doing that, you're also shutting yourself off from any chance of healing. Or connection."

"I don't need to connect with anyone. I just need to stop feeling." I snap, immediately regretting the sharpness in my tone.

"Feeling is human, Rowan. It's part of you, and trying to control it, is only going to hurt more. All you're doing is adding to your own suffering." She says.

She's right. But I hate hearing it.

"I don't know how to stop it." I admit placing a hand on my heart. My chest hurting.

"You start by acknowledging that you can't control everything. You have to be honest with yourself. You're hurting, Rowan. You're carrying a lot. You don't have to carry it alone." She says.

I scoff, standing up. Feeling the weight of her words pressing down on me.

This woman knows nothing about me yet so much. She's a hell of a good therapist.
And I hate her for it.

"I think that'll be enough for today. Before we end this session, I want to give you something to work on for next time." She says.

"I don't do homework." I say, my tone sharp.

"I figured you might say that." She leans against her desk, her arms crossed. Like she's considering how to reach me. "This is something to help you, it's a good place to start." She adds.

I swallow hard. "What do you want me to do?" I ask, like the words are being dragged out of me.

"I want you to write a letter. Not to me, but to yourself." She says.

I stare at her confused. "Why?"

"I want you to take time to address yourself. Your own feelings, your own pain."

She walks over to her desk and picks up a notepad, tearing off a single sheet of paper before handing it to me.

"Write yourself a letter, about everything you've been avoiding. Your guilt, your anger, your fear. Be honest with yourself. Don't hold back. I want you to write down what you feel, even if it's messy. Especially if it's messy."

I take the paper from her, eyeing it like it's a loaded weapon. "And what exactly am I supposed to do with this once it's written?"

"You can bring it in next week if you want. But the point isn't for me to read it. It's for you to face the things you've been running from. To stop controlling the narrative in your head and just...let it out."

The tension in my chest grows tighter. "And if I don't do it?"

Dr. Cartwright shrugs, but I can tell she's serious. "Then you don't. I'm not your teacher. But this is a step toward healing. The choice is yours."

I stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of the paper in my hand. It feels heavier than it should, like it's filled with everything I've been refusing to face. Part of me wants to crumple it up and throw it away. But a bigger part, the part that's still holding on to Scarlett, knows I need to try.

"Fine," I mutter, stuffing the paper into my pocket. "I'll think about it."

Dr. Cartwright smiles. "I'll see you next week."

Without another word, I push open the door and walk out.

A letter to myself.

Sounds easy. But as I walk away, I already know it's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done.

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