The soft hum of the clinic's waiting room filled the silence, a background murmur that did little to settle my nerves. I sat in the stiff chair, hands clenched together, feeling like I was under a microscope. The air smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic, but neither scent could drown out the anxiety twisting in my stomach.
A woman in a pale blouse and comforting expression opened the door, a clipboard in hand. "Annelise?" she called out, her voice kind but professional. I stood, swallowing the nervous knot in my throat as I followed her down a short hallway, where the walls were lined with bland, calming art. The room she led me into was different—softer somehow, with warm tones and comfortable chairs positioned across from each other. A single lamp cast a gentle glow, dim enough to make me feel shielded but bright enough to keep me alert.
"My name is Dr. Reynolds," she said as I sat across from her. She settled into her chair, her smile small but reassuring. "Feel free to call me Emma if that's easier."
"Hi… Dr. Reynolds," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I glanced down at my hands, noticing the faint tremor in my fingers. I wasn't sure if it was nerves or something else—a reluctance to be here, to sit across from a stranger and bare parts of myself I'd kept hidden.
"I know this can feel a bit awkward at first," she said gently, noticing my hesitation. "Let's start at a comfortable pace. I'm here to help, so take as much or as little time as you need."
I nodded, still unsure. But there was a warmth in her gaze, an assurance that made it feel okay to start, even if it was only small steps.
"So, Annelise," she continued, her voice soothing. "Why don't we begin with whatever feels comfortable? There's no rush, and no wrong answers here."
I took a deep breath, hesitating. My mind flashed back to the bridge, to that night and everything that had come before it. The image of my sister came to me—a reminder of all I'd lost, of what I could never get back. My throat tightened.
"It's hard to know where to start," I admitted, forcing the words past the barrier of my fear. "I guess… I've been struggling for a long time. But I've never really told anyone about it. I didn't know how."
Dr. Reynolds nodded, her expression understanding. "That's completely normal. Sometimes, finding the words is the hardest part. And sometimes, you don't even need to speak right away. Just being here is a big step."
Her words were simple, but they resonated, settling some of the unease. "There's so much," I continued slowly. "I feel like I'm carrying… so much. Expectations, maybe? And guilt."
She remained quiet, encouraging me to continue at my own pace. I looked at my hands again, fidgeting with a loose thread on my sweater. "It's my family," I said, my voice a murmur. "They've always expected so much from me. And after my sister… after she died, it felt like I had to be perfect, like I had to make up for everything she couldn't do."
"And how does that make you feel?" Dr. Reynolds asked, her voice gentle.
"Exhausted," I admitted, my chest tightening with the weight of the confession. "It feels like I'm living for someone else, like I'm in this constant race to meet standards I'll never be able to reach. It's suffocating."
Dr. Reynolds nodded, her expression compassionate. "That sounds incredibly difficult, Annelise. Carrying those kinds of expectations can be overwhelming, especially when they come with the weight of grief."
For a long moment, I stared at the ground, absorbing her words. It felt strange, hearing someone else say it, to know that maybe I wasn't alone in feeling this way. But even as the relief of her understanding washed over me, there was still a wall—a part of me holding back, afraid to let her see everything.
"Grief does strange things to us," she continued. "It changes us in ways we don't always recognize. And sometimes, it leaves us feeling like we have to fill voids that aren't ours to fill."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. Her words struck a chord, but I felt exposed, as if she were peeling away layers I hadn't meant to show.
We continued like that for a while—me sharing pieces of my story, and her gently guiding me, her questions like soft nudges that helped me open up without feeling forced. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was in a space where I didn't have to be strong or perfect. I could just be… me, with all my flaws and fears.
When the session ended, I felt a strange mixture of relief and vulnerability, as if I'd taken off a mask I'd been wearing for years. Dr. Reynolds walked me to the door, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
"We'll go at your pace, Annelise," she said, her smile reassuring. "Remember, this is your journey. Take it one step at a time."
I nodded, a small smile finding its way onto my face. For the first time, the idea of facing my struggles didn't feel entirely impossible.
As I stepped out of the room, I looked down the hallway and froze. Christopher was there, his tall figure leaning against the wall. He looked up as I walked out, his gaze meeting mine, and there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
I felt my cheeks flush, memories of that night on the bridge flashing in my mind. The water, the fear, the sound of his voice as he pulled me to safety. I hadn't expected to see him here, and the sight of him stirred something within me—gratitude mingled with an odd sense of familiarity.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying the same calmness I remembered.
"Hi," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. I didn't know what else to say, didn't know how to express the strange connection I felt toward him.
There was a pause, and I saw something in his eyes—a softness, maybe, or a sense of understanding. It felt like he knew more than he let on, like he could see the cracks beneath the surface.
"Well," he said, breaking the silence, "it's good to see you up and around."
I nodded, feeling an odd surge of courage. "Thank you. For everything."
He offered a small smile, his gaze steady. "Anytime."
Another silence settled between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was almost… grounding, like a shared understanding that didn't need words. I knew he'd seen me at my lowest, yet somehow, standing here with him, I felt stronger. It was a strange feeling—being seen yet not judged.
"Well, take care, Annelise," he said, his voice gentle.
"You too," I replied, my chest tightening with a mixture of gratitude and something I couldn't quite place.
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway, feeling more grounded than I had in a long time.