Page 24 of Letters From A Stalker

“So I have to come back?”

“That’s generally how therapy works.”

“It feels like a subscription scam.”

“It is. Mara handles cancellations and emotional extortion.”

Another laugh slips from her, softer this time.

“What I can tell you,” I continue, “is that your reactions make sense based on what you learned as a child. That doesn’t mean they’re helping you now.”

Her expression becomes thoughtful. “What am I supposed to do instead?”

“For the next week, notice every time you say you’re fine when you aren’t. Notice when you apologize for needing something, when you make a joke because the truth feels too exposed, and when you start turning pain into something practical because practical feels safer.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It probably will be.”

“Another excellent sales pitch.” A soft snort escapes her and for some reason, that little sound pulls at something invisible inside me.

“I’ve never been accused of being inspirational.” I try to push it off with a joke.

“I find that hard to believe.” The words leave her before she seems to consider how they might sound.

A faint flush rises along her throat, but it reads more like embarrassment at having accidentally complimented a stranger than attraction. That makes her lower her gaze toward the bottle as if hoping the moment will pass without comment.

I let it. “I’d also like you to write down anything you remember about the panic attack. Physical sensations, thoughts, memories, and what happened immediately before and after.”

“Homework.” She deadpans.

“Observation.”

“Therapist language for homework.”

“Yes.”

She exhales dramatically but nods.

“Same time next week?”

The question should feel routine, yet the answer rises with a certainty that catches me off guard.

I want her back here.

“Yes,” I say. “Mara can schedule it before you leave.”

Julia gathers her purse and stands. The water bottle slips against her damp palm, and I rise instinctively when she bends to catch it. We stop inches apart.

Up close, her perfume is warmer than I expected, vanilla beneath something lightly floral, mixed with the clean scent of rain lingering in her hair. Her eyes lift to mine, startled by the sudden closeness, and every part of her body becomes still.

She isn’t drawn toward me. She’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

Touch her.

My hand tightens at my side. I step back first. Julia straightens slowly, pressing the bottle against her chest.

“Sorry.” The apology is barely audible.