"Please have your appointments ready," my assistant reminds me as she enters the room, holding a file with the day's patient list."Dr. Asher, we have ten people scheduled today," she continues, her voice brisk. I nod in acknowledgment and rise from the sofa, shaking off the remnants of a long morning."Send them in one by one. If anyone's in a rush, prioritize them," I reply, taking off my glasses and placing them on the desk.I'm Dr. Asher, a psychologist. Every day, I listen to my clients and help them with their problems. After years in this field, I've encountered many stories, and I'd say I've seen enough of the world—nothing much can surprise me anymore. I scan the file my assistant handed me, noting the first name on the list.Patient: Lena WayesAge: 28
Profession: Pediatric Surgeon
A surgeon, I think. That's interesting. I wonder what brings her here today.The door opens, and I don't look up right away, still reviewing her details. When she settles into the chair opposite me, I finally meet her gaze. I offer a small smile, hoping to break the ice. Her short, shoulder-length hair frames a face with gray eyes that seem hollow, almost lifeless. She looks younger than her age, but there's a heavy emptiness in her expression that betrays her youth. It's clear she has no real interest in this session, yet here she is, sitting in front of me, seemingly waiting for something."Good morning," I say, trying to start the conversation with warmth.She nods respectfully but replies softly, her voice flat and lacking warmth. "Good morning.""Miss Lena, is it?" I ask, putting the file down and focusing on her now.Her nod is almost imperceptible, as if she's unsure whether she wants to be here at all. She waits silently for me to continue, her eyes drifting momentarily to the clock on the wall."Miss Lena, you can share anything with me. Anything you tell me will stay between us," I say, maintaining a steady gaze. I can sense her disinterest, despite her attempts to appear composed. But hiding from a psychologist is hard; I'm trained to see through the façades."Very well," she replies, her voice still dead and flat, almost mechanical, as if the words are simply a function of her duty to be here."Are you in a hurry, Miss Lena?" I ask, noticing her restless glances at the time."Pretty much. Can I share anything?" she asks, her tone devoid of emotion, almost as if she's reading lines from a script.I nod, a smile still on my face. "Yes, anything."Her next words pierce the air with chilling clarity. "Can you tell me what's wrong with me?" Her tone is serious and lifeless, as if she's inquiring about a mundane fact rather than a deeply personal question.I'm taken aback by her directness, but I maintain my calm demeanor. "Well, looking at you, it seems like you have some problems. But I can't say much without you explaining, you know?" I smile gently, hoping to encourage her to open up.She seems to agree, giving a slight nod. But the pause that follows hangs heavily in the air as she appears to weigh her words carefully. "What if I told you I like the idea of dying?"Her words catch me off guard, yet I'm not surprised. The depth of her statement reflects a struggle I can sense beneath her detached exterior. "Can you tell me the reason behind it?" I ask, attempting to encourage her to share more. She appears as if she's here against her will, but I hope to engage her nonetheless."I can relate to that feeling, Miss Lena," I say, watching her closely for any signs of interest. Many patients suffering from inner conflict want to be heard, and they need a reason to talk. Sharing similar struggles can help them relax and open up more since it's a universal human trait.She nods slightly, listening but still keeping her distance, her eyes glazed as if looking through me rather than at me."You see, I suffered from depression and anxiety not long ago," I begin, feeling a flicker of connection. "I felt like the darkness was calling me... like it wanted me to give in." I look at her, hoping to find a spark of understanding beneath her heavy sadness."How did you fight it?" she asks, her tone still dead, yet now tinged with a hint of curiosity that sparks hope within me."It was hard to come out of my shell," I explain, "but slowly I found myself around the right people." I smile, keeping it simple, aware that sharing is crucial for healing. If we walk a bridge to reach our goals while burdened with dark thoughts and alone, we're likely to lose our way."Liar," she states coldly, her voice sharp enough to cut through the silence."Sorry?" I reply, surprised at her sudden accusation."You haven't come out of it. You suffer too," she adds, her tone harsh and unyielding. "I don't see how someone who is suffering on their own can help someone like me who feels beyond saving.""I am a professional, Miss Lena. I can help you. As for my past, it's behind me. I'm clearly fine now," I say, trying to convince her. Deep down, I know she's right; her words hit home. I'm not surprised she can see through me. After all, she suffers from mental illness herself, making it easier for her to read people. Plus, as a pediatric surgeon, she's always surrounded by children and their families—she probably understands human emotions just as well as I do. She's one of the rarest kinds of patients I encounter here."What makes you think you are beyond saving, Miss Lena?" I add, trying to keep the conversation flowing, hoping to draw her out."I will share more during my next visit, I guess," she says as she stands to leave, her tone still cold and dismissive. "I have a patient to take care of."As soon as she exits my office, I let out a deep breath, my shoulders sagging under the weight of the session. "Will you be coming back, though?" I murmur to myself, the question echoing in the quiet room.I can't shake the feeling of Lena's presence. Her cold demeanor, the deadness in her eyes, and the heaviness in her voice linger in my mind. As I gather my thoughts for the next patient, I can't help but wonder how someone so accomplished—a pediatric surgeon, no less—could feel so trapped within herself. What shadows loom in her past? What burdens does she carry?The clock ticks steadily on the wall, marking time in an almost mocking fashion. I remind myself that every patient brings a unique story, a complex tapestry of experiences and emotions. But Lena's story feels especially weighty, as if the fabric is woven with threads of despair that are difficult to unravel.My thoughts drift back to our conversation. She mentioned the idea of dying—an echo of a sentiment I've heard before. I think of the many patients who have wandered through these doors, each carrying their own scars and struggles. Yet Lena's cold, dead tone sticks with me, a reminder of the depths of human suffering that I sometimes forget, buried beneath layers of professionalism and healing.I take a moment to center myself, to shake off the heaviness Lena left behind. The next patient will need my full attention, and I can't afford to let the weight of one session linger into the next. After all, it's not just my duty as a psychologist; it's my passion.But as I prepare for the next appointment, I know I will carry Lena's story with me. I want to help her find the light, to guide her through the darkness she feels is closing in. I can't allow her to believe she is beyond saving.In this line of work, it's easy to forget that we, too, are human, susceptible to the same emotions that our patients face. I remind myself of that truth as I glance at the clock, waiting for the next name on the list to appear at the door.