Chapter 1: The Waiting Game
The door opened with a soft click, and Miriam stood there, her sharp eyes taking in Rachel’s hunched form on the bench. “You’re early,” she said, her voice a blend of blunt observation and quiet warmth. “That’s new.”
"Where else would I be?" Rachel shrugged, her tone venomous. Of course I’m early, she thought, because the alternative was sitting in my car for another twenty minutes thinking about how utterly fucking pointless this is. The silence in the hallway expanded, thick and cold, pressing against her ears. She stepped inside.
The office was small, clinically tidy, and smelled of old paper and the faint, clean scent of Miriam’s soap. Rachel took the opposite seat from her, the worn leather sighing under her weight.
Miriam sat down with a slow calmness, her eyes not leaving Rachel’s tense face. “You look like shit.”
Rachel scoffed; she appreciated that. It was a sport. “Takes one to know one, Doc. You’re looking a little ‘lived-in’ today.”
Miriam took it comfortably, her expression unchanging, as she settled back into her chair and took a slow sip from her mug. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was charged, waiting for one of them to blink.
Rachel blinked.
“I feel like shit.” She cracked a knuckle, the pop loud in the quiet room.
Miriam watched her, the silence stretching just long enough to become its own question. “What does ‘shit’ feel like, today?” she finally asked, her voice devoid of therapeutic cliché.
Rachel stared at a water stain on the ceiling, her throat tight. “It feels… fuckin' lonely. And not the normal kind.” She shifted in her chair, the leather creaking. “It’s like everyone else is… connected to something warm, and I’m just out here in the shit fucking cold wanting to loved and it's...” She immediately made a face, waving a dismissive hand. “Jesus, that's so fuckin' sappy.”
Miriam shrugged, nonchalant. “Maybe it is.” Like she wasn’t bothered. Wasn’t gonna make fun of her.
The simple acceptance was a disarming pressure against Rachel’s ribs. She stared, waiting for the trap, the analysis, but it never came. “Christ,” she muttered, looking away, the fight leaking out of her shoulders.
A hot, stupid pressure built behind her eyes. She shook her head, a pathetic smile twisting her lips as she stared at the floor. You pathetic fucking child, her own voice sneered in her head.
Miriam watched the whole internal collapse, her mug resting on her knee. “What does that love look like?” she asked, her tone utterly flat.
Rachel stared, then barked a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “You writing a romance novel now?” Her face was hot. What a stupid, invasive question.
Miriam’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of dry amusement passed through her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
She immediately felt stupid for dismissing it. The defensive laugh curdled in her throat, leaving a sour taste. “I don’t know, it’s just… not being alone in a room,” she started, the words clumsy and foreign. “Someone’s skin, I guess. Their weight.” A hot, prickling shame crawled up her neck.
Miriam’s expression didn’t shift. "Skin and weight," she echoed, her tone flat as slate.
Rachel’s jaw worked, the words sticking in her throat like broken glass. "Not like that—not just… fuck." She dragged a hand over her face, her voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Like... someone knowing exactly where you are in a dark room without asking."
Miriam set her mug down on the desk with a soft, definitive click. “When was the last time you felt that? Not alone in a dark room.”
Fuck you, Rachel thought, the memory a physical blow behind her ribs. It was a stupid, mundane thing—a shared silence over takeout years ago, a knee touching hers under a table. She swallowed against the sudden, granular tightness in her throat. “I don’t do nostalgia,” she said, her voice stripped raw.
Miriam’s gaze didn’t waver, but her head tilted slightly, a tactical shift. “Okay,” she said, the word a neutral placeholder. She let the silence pool again, then leaned forward just an inch. “So let’s talk about your hands instead.” Rachel’s fingers, which had been digging into her own thighs, stilled. “They’re always doing something when you talk about being alone.”
Rachel nods. She breathes. She nods.
“They fidget,” Rachel finally says, looking down at her own restless fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
Miriam noted, waited, watching the silence thicken between them until it became its own answer.