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CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THERAPY II
🕑 Added 2025-03-19 12:06:39 +0000 UTCThe office was small but inviting. Soft lighting. Neutral colours. The chair was positioned at an angle, close enough to feel engaged, distant enough to avoid pressure. Casual. Even the desk was clean, uncluttered, with only a laptop and a few neatly stacked files.
Contessa sat with her hands folded in her lap, posture perfectly upright. Across from her, the therapist—Dr. Jessica Yamada—watched her with practiced patience. She had the air of someone who could wait forever if needed, content to let the silence stretch until it became unbearable.
Contessa could wait longer.
Dr. Yamada smiled slightly, as if she knew exactly what was happening. “You don’t have to talk before you’re ready,” she said.
“I am ready.”
A small nod. “Then what would you like to start with?”
Contessa considered the question. There were many answers. None seemed particularly relevant.
“I do not require therapy,” she said instead.
Dr. Yamada didn’t react, simply tilting her head in acknowledgment. “Then why are you here?”
“Maggie believes it is necessary.”
“And what do you believe?”
Contessa hesitated. She could say the truth—that emotions were an obstacle she had learned to sidestep, that processing them had never been a priority. That therapy, as a concept, seemed inefficient.
But then she thought of Maggie’s hand covering hers. The way her voice had softened when she said, I want you to be okay.
“I believe Maggie is concerned.”
Dr. Yamada leaned back slightly, nodding. “She cares about you.”
“Yes.”
There was another pause, measured.
“Tell me about yourself,” Dr. Yamada said finally. “Whatever you’d like.”
A broad prompt. An open-ended question.
Contessa had spent a lifetime honing efficiency, extracting only the necessary information and discarding the rest. But now, faced with a stranger who expected something more—something personal, something hers—she found herself momentarily at a loss.
She could tell the truth—that she had once held the fate of the world in her hands. That she had shaped the course of history with a word. That she had walked away from omniscience and was still learning how to exist without it.
Instead, she said, “I work at a diner.”
Dr. Yamada’s lips quirked. “That’s a start.”
A softer silence stretched between them.
Contessa exhaled. This was not efficient. But maybe, for once, that wasn’t the point.
