The first rays of the morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow over my office.

I paused to let the stillness settle around me, the light catching the red hues of my hair—a bold choice I'd made years ago, an expression of rebellion against my natural deep brown.

"Good morning, Ruby," came a voice, tentative yet eager.

I turned to see Ember, the newest addition to our team, standing in the doorway.

Her auburn hair caught the light, contrasting against the muted tones of the office, her blue eyes wide with anticipation and a touch of nerves. She clutched her notepad like a lifeline.

"Good morning, Ember. Ready for your first day?" I greeted her warmly.

She nodded. "Absolutely, I've been looking forward to this."

I guided her to her desk, perched near the window, and began an overview of the scheduling system — our lifeline in the whirlwind of clients, meetings, and paperwork.

As I walked her through the process, I found my gaze drifting to the cityscape outside my window.

The skyscrapers and bustling streets were like a carefully woven tapestry, each thread representing a life in motion. And yet, for all its movement, the city felt oddly... distant.

Sometimes, I felt like just another flickering light in the crowd, a small spark moving along the city's vast, impersonal current.

Here in this office, though, I found a purpose. A chance to connect, even if fleetingly, with people who needed it. People like Mr. Carter.

📌📌

As I sat across from Mr. Carter, his voice steady but eyes betraying a hidden weight, I sensed the invisible walls he'd built around himself.

I recognized the signs, the layers he'd meticulously arranged to protect something fragile underneath. He spoke of work stresses, of sleepless nights, but it was clear his struggles went deeper than that.

"Mr. Carter," I said gently, "these feelings you're grappling with aren't uncommon. Let's take it one step at a time."

He nodded, and slowly, we began unspooling his worries.

With each minute that passed, I could see a faint light of understanding emerge in his eyes—a glimpse that maybe he didn't have to carry all this alone.

By the end of the session, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment, like we'd taken the first step in an uphill journey.

"We've made some important strides today, Mr. Carter. I know it doesn't feel like much now, but it's a foundation," I reassured him as he stood to leave.

"Thank you, Ruby. I'll see you on Thursday, then?"

I nodded. "Yes, Thursday. We'll pick up where we left off."

As his footsteps faded down the hall, I took a moment to let the quiet of the office fill me, grounding myself.

The soft hum of Ember's voice and the click of her keyboard were the only sounds in the room, a soothing rhythm that let me reset.

"Ruby," Ember's voice called, breaking my brief respite, "there's someone on the line hoping to schedule a session for today. It sounds urgent."

I straightened. "Do we have any openings?"

Ember checked the schedule. "We can shift a few things around. There's a slot after lunch."

"Book it," I said, the decision easy. The work we did here mattered too much to turn someone away.

"And thank you, Ember. You handled that well."

She smiled, a glimmer of pride in her eyes. "Of course, Ruby. I'm here to help."

Later, as I organized my notes, Ember's voice drifted through the office again, more formal this time.

"Ruby, your next appointment, Mr. Damian Briggs, is here for his session."

I felt a hint of curiosity at the name. I hadn't spoken to him personally, but his request had sounded urgent. "Please, send him in," I said.

The door opened, and he entered, a man whose presence seemed to shift the air in the room.

He was tall, his frame lean but muscular, with a quiet grace that spoke of controlled power. His dark hair was just slightly tousled, a touch too long and framing a face that held striking features.

His gaze was dark, unfathomable, as if he held an entire world behind it, one he allowed no one else to see.

"Mr. Briggs," I greeted him, motioning to the chair across from me. "I understand you needed to see me urgently?"

He inclined his head, taking his seat with an elegance that made it seem as though the leather chair had been crafted just for him.

"Yes, thank you for fitting me in," he replied, his voice low and smooth, each word chosen with a precision that made me feel he rarely spoke without purpose.

There was something unsettling in his gaze, a guarded intensity that piqued my curiosity. "How may I help you today, Mr. Briggs?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Please, call me Damian. The surname feels... unnecessary here."

"Alright, Damian," I said, noting the way he seemed to settle slightly at the sound of his first name. "What brings you here today?"

He seemed to consider his words. "Lately, I've been feeling... disconnected, like an outsider in my own life. I'm surrounded by people constantly, yet I'm never truly with them."

I leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Isolation can be unsettling, especially when it doesn't align with the life you're living. It sounds like there's a dissonance between what people see of you and what you feel internally."

He tilted his head, considering. "Yes, exactly," he murmured, almost to himself.

I studied him, noting the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to keep himself carefully contained, as if revealing too much would be dangerous—not just for him, but maybe for me as well.

"Would you say it's more of a physical loneliness, or does it run deeper?"

A hint of amusement flickered in his gaze, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Dr. Ruby, I sense you understand the difference. It's the latter, undoubtedly." He paused, running a hand through his dark hair, the movement casual yet somehow deliberate.

"I'm rarely alone in the literal sense. I attend gatherings, have acquaintances... but they're just faces in the background. They don't know me. Not really."

I softened my tone, sensing this was a truth he rarely shared. "That kind of disconnect can feel like a weight, can't it? Like you're carrying something heavy that no one else can see."

"Yes," he admitted, his voice softening. "And it's a weight that only grows heavier the longer I carry it."

For a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable, his gaze flickering with something unguarded before he quickly masked it.

I nodded, sensing layers he wasn't quite willing to reveal. "It sounds like you're looking for a connection that goes beyond surface-level interactions."

"Yes." His voice was softer now, almost reflective. "I suppose I'm looking for... authenticity. Realness." He paused, a flicker of something darker crossing his face.

"But that seems rare, doesn't it?"

I held his gaze.

"It can be, especially in a world where everyone feels the need to maintain a certain image." I paused, deciding to tread carefully. "Do you think this need for authenticity might stem from your past relationships — family or otherwise?"

His expression grew guarded again, his gaze drifting to the bookshelf behind me. "We haven't been in touch for a long time. It's... complicated."

The humor had faded from his voice, leaving only a quiet resignation.

I nodded, keeping my voice gentle. "Complicated is something we can work with. Family often leaves marks we're not even aware of until much later. Sometimes, even the smallest experiences shape us in ways we don't fully understand."

His eyes met mine, darker now, as if shadows danced within them.

"Let's just say my family relationships are... fractured. It's not something I discuss easily." He straightened, his posture almost defensive, but I sensed a longing there, something he kept locked away.

"Understood," I replied, respecting the boundary. "We don't have to go there today. But I'm here when you're ready to discuss it." I paused, choosing my next words carefully.

"In the meantime, what brings you a sense of connection? What makes you feel at ease?"

A wry smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes remained distant. "You mean besides the impulse to walk away from everything?"

I chuckled softly, feeling the weight of his words despite the humor. "That's a common impulse, believe it or not. But I'm asking, beyond escape, is there anything in your life that brings you a sense of peace or purpose?"

He leaned back, his gaze distant. "You might find it strange, but I often feel at the mercy of something inside me... an urge that pulls me toward... chaos."

He let out a low chuckle, though it sounded almost pained. "It's as if a part of me craves something darker, something I can't quite explain."

I kept my expression neutral, though his words made me pause. "Many people have parts of themselves they don't fully understand. Sometimes, these aspects of ourselves aren't inherently dark or wrong—they just need acknowledgment, a voice." I softened my tone. "The more we try to silence them, the louder they get."

His gaze shifted back to me, studying me with a mix of relief and curiosity. "You're different," he murmured. "Most people wouldn't get that."

"Well, Damian," I replied, smiling gently, "sometimes understanding ourselves is a journey. You don't have to have all the answers right now."

He looked thoughtful, almost vulnerable, as if he were weighing whether he could trust me. "My life has been... unconventional," he admitted quietly. "There are parts of my past I wouldn't even know how to describe. Sometimes I wonder if I've become something other than... human."

I felt a shiver, an unexplainable sensation that lingered as he spoke. "You're not alone in feeling that way," I said softly, even though a part of me felt there was something profoundly different about him.

"It's not uncommon to feel that we're carrying something unique or misunderstood. And sometimes, acknowledging that is the first step to making sense of it."

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady on mine. For the first time, his guard seemed to lower, if only slightly, as if he were seeing me in a different light.

"You're easy to talk to," he said finally, his tone softer. "Most people don't get it... don't get me."

"That's what I'm here for," I replied, my voice gentle but steady. "And you don't have to explain everything right away. We can take this as slowly as you need."

The timer chimed softly, signaling the end of our session. Damian rose, his movements smooth and deliberate, his height making him appear even more imposing.

Yet as he extended his hand, his grip was firm but not overpowering, a gesture of both strength and restraint.

"It was... enlightening, Ruby," he said, his voice holding a note of sincerity that felt rare. "I look forward to our next session."

"The feeling is mutual, Damian," I replied, meeting his gaze, feeling that quiet pull between us. "Until then."

As he left, his presence lingered, a trace of something unexplainable hanging in the air, leaving me with a sense of curiosity—and perhaps even anticipation—about the layers he'd yet to reveal.

🌇🌆

As the day ended, I gathered my things, the quiet office now shrouded in evening light. I locked the door, stepping into the cool embrace of dusk, my mind still on Damian's words and the guarded intensity in his eyes.

The drive home was my time to decompress, and tonight, the city lights blurred into a soft glow against the fading light. I rolled down my window, letting the breeze tug at my hair as if it could carry away the day's weight.

When my phone buzzed with Frida's name, I answered with a smile.

"Red! You won't believe the place I've found," her voice bubbled with excitement. "It's in Brighton, and it's got more space than I know what to do with."

The thought of a quiet retreat appealed more than I wanted to admit. "It sounds amazing, Free. But why so much space?"

"That's the thing. I want you to move in with me. Imagine it! A sanctuary, away from the city chaos. We'd split costs, and you could finally have some peace."

I chuckled, turning into my parking lot. The idea had a pull, but as I looked around my neighborhood, the warmth of familiarity held me.

Wickham had become a part of me — the neighbors, the coffee shop where they knew my order, the park's quiet paths. I'd built a life here, one small connection at a time.

Still, as I settled into my apartment, Frida's words lingered. Brighton's allure was undeniable, but could I trade the comfort of the known for the thrill of something new?

The night outside was still, and I let myself ponder the choice, balancing the warmth of this life against the call of the unknown.