Page 101 of Letters From A Stalker

She sits quietly with that for a moment.

“Okay.”The word is simple, but the relief in it isn’t. Then she smiles slightly. “Good. Because I really didn’t want another thing to unpack.”

“You’re allowed to leave some boxes closed.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I let the humor settle instead of feeding it. The remainder of the session moves elsewhere, though I absorb considerably less of it than I should.

We talk about work, about the assignment I gave her and the fact that she caught herself apologizing to Mrs. Pritchard for being busy before realizing the older woman had never accused her of neglecting anything. Julia laughs when she tells me Mrs. Pritchard responded to her saying she wanted coffee by telling her that was better. I make the appropriate observation about how quickly language changes when obligation becomes choice.

Privately, I remain trapped several conversations behind.

I like knowing the other person is in control. If I say no, they stop. It only feels good because it isn’t actually being taken away.

Ghost has memorized every fucking word.

When the session ends, I do what I always do. I make sure Julia is grounded, ask whether anything we discussed feels unfinished or likely to follow her home in a way she doesn’t want, and watch her gather her bag. She looks lighter than when she arrived. That should be enough. It should be the only thing that matters.

At the door, she turns toward me.

“For the record, I deeply appreciate that you managed to discuss my sex life without making it weird.”

There are few moments in my career when maintaining a straight face has required more effort. “I’m glad.”

“Very professional.”

“I try.”

Julia smiles. Then she walks out. I remain beside the door until I hear Mara greet her at reception and Julia’s voice answers before the outer door eventually closes.

Only then do I exhale.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The words disappear into the empty office.

I return to my chair and sit down, removing my glasses long enough to press my fingers against my eyes. This has to stop. The sentence has become so familiar that it no longer qualifies as an intention. I should transfer her. That remains true, possibly more true than it has ever been. I should call one of the colleagues whose names I have mentally listed half a dozen times and explain that I need to terminate treatment due to a conflict that prevents me from remaining objective. I don’t need to tell Julia why. Not all of it. I only need to acknowledge that I am no longer capable of giving her the treatment she deserves. Then I need therapy of my own. Urgently. Possibly somewhere with locked doors.

A knock interrupts the thought.

Mara appears again. “Your four o’clock canceled. Flu, apparently. She rescheduled for next week.”

Of course she did. “Anything else after that?”

“No. You’re free unless you decide to invent work.”

She studies me. “You look strange.”

“I always look strange.”

“No, you usually look expensive and emotionally unavailable. This is different.”

I give her a flat look.

Mara smiles sweetly. “I’ll be out front.”

The door closes behind her. I should use the unexpected hour to finish notes. Instead, I open the desk drawer. The stationery is not here. I keep that at home. The fact that disappointment appears tells me everything I need to know about what I have already decided.

For ten minutes, I attempt to work anyway. I complete Julia’s note with deliberately neutral language, documenting the discussion of sexuality and trauma without including detail that isn’t clinically necessary. I write that she reports consensual sexual preferences involving intensity and transfer of control, experiences them as chosen rather than rejective, and identifies clear consent and immediate responsiveness to boundaries as central to feeling safe. I reread it. Professional and accurate. Then Ghost supplies the sentence I did not write.