The Therapy Session

There are things in the world that happen against your will and at the wrong time. Like when he heats an unhealthy convenience meal in his new microwave, and it beeps just when he doesn’t want to wake anyone up. Or the printer in the office, when he’s printing some essential documents, and the ink runs out, but the sheets keep spitting out. Or the annoying colleagues in the office who ask him “How are you?” without even caring about him. And all of this is buried in the nasty mess called life that he has to endure every day, whether he likes it or not.

He knew this very well, because the world showed him every day with meticulous precision.

Boredom was building up inside him, just waiting for the right moment to erupt. Even before he left his apartment, the “Descale” light on the coffee machine was blinking. He stood staring at it as if this wasn’t his problem, and someone was bound to show up and solve it. But there was no one, just him, the sink, the five clean glasses, and his pretentious apartment, with furniture ordered from all sorts of brochures that had been delivered to him by mail without him even subscribing to them.

On his way out, that key ring tangled in his pocket again, a small battle, easily lost. He just smiled and told himself that once his life was falling apart, there was no point in helping it by getting angry over such small things.

The weather outside was grey, and the rain felt like a wet backdrop. He liked it because it slowly washed away the grime that had accumulated from everything that life had to offer him in the course of a seemingly ordinary day.

On the bus, someone was listening to music so loud that it was as if they weren’t wearing headphones. Another had decided that the public space was an extension of his living room. On the advertising banner in the corner, there was a picture of overly cheerful young people with a ridiculous caption: “Five Ways to Be More Productive Today.” It was as if productivity were a religion for people who still had the energy to pretend that tomorrow was a new beginning.

He entered the office and was greeted by that banal smell again, now like rot: coffee, too much disinfectant, and an awful lot of confidence. Even the light had this feeling of overconfidence—bright and even, without shadows.

“Good morning!” someone said. He nodded, which was his way of saying, “Everything’s fine, don’t bother me anymore.”

His computer was loading so slowly that he wondered why he hadn’t thrown it away by now. As he waited for the miracle to happen, his phone vibrated with a reminder for an appointment: “Weekly alignment.” It meant only one thing: a whole hour with people who didn’t know how to say “I don’t know” or “I have no idea.” The meeting started in a hurry and ended with an apology for the time taken. Someone complained about being ‘burnt out’ after six hours of sleep; others were silent, as if keeping a secret too deep; another said, “Let’s circle back.” He stood there and watched it all and felt it build up inside him like a big sticky ball stuck in his trachea, and as if it wasn’t letting him breathe.

The most annoying thing was that they kept talking nonsense that didn’t interest him at all. And they kept talking as if it mattered. There were also complaints about the coffee being more bitter than usual. He laughed at this because he took it as another platitude that someone was forcing on him, as if it were something fashionable these days. But he didn’t say anything because telling the truth at such a meeting isn’t well-received and makes a bad impression.

When the meeting was over, he went to the sideboard and looked at the sign on the wall that said, “Mental health matters!” and pictures of people who apparently have no problems. He thought it was like a fire extinguisher that everyone knew where it was, but no one had ever used it; in reality, it was just another lie spat in your face. Next to the sink, someone had left a dirty spoon, apparently hoping someone else would wash it. This angered him deeply because it was the perfect metaphor for how things are in the world: we all leave a dirty spoon somewhere and then wonder why everything is dirty.

He went outside to get some fresh air. And outside, he saw the usual consumers—commuters moving about in a hurried and confident tone, with “I’ve got my life together” written on their faces.

There were a few hours left until therapy—the only thing that still produced results.

He checked the time, then checked it again, as if the numbers might rearrange themselves into something kinder.

He didn’t believe in ambiguity. He liked causes and effects—tight screws. Clear labels. Sleep didn’t give him that anymore. Neither did his mind. And yet, every week, at the same hour, he walked to the same door, sat in the same chair, and paid for someone to ask him the same question. When was the last time you slept without waking up?

The day passed slowly as if time had stopped. Emails came in with demands from people who expected him to be a robot. Notifications appeared and disappeared like morning mist. Someone laughed loudly in the hallway, as if to show everyone that there were no problems.

He looked at his watch, and it showed that it was already time. He stood up abruptly, as if he was going to miss the bus while he was at the bus stop. It was as if relief had its own schedule.

Outside, the rain had almost stopped, and the lights came on as if it had been agreed upon with the onset of darkness. He walked down the wet sidewalk, passing warm cafes full of people who laughed as if they had ordered another dose of life.

On the way home, he bought himself some more time alone with himself and his thoughts. He turned onto a street that was not in his way at all and let the last drops of rain wash away the nasty snot that had covered him all day.

His phone vibrated just in time: THERA SESSIONS — £60. He had no intention of opening the bank app; he didn’t feel like going into details.

The address was about ten minutes away on a small street, as if forgotten. There wasn’t even a “Welcome” sign, and the door always looked damp as if it never dried out between days.

Before entering, he stopped at the threshold, his hand hanging on the doorknob. Not that he was scared, he just thought that when he entered, he wouldn’t need the right smile.

Inside, it was cool and smelled of disinfectant and cinnamon. There was not a living soul in the waiting room, only silence that taught calm.

The door to the office opened, the usual setting: white walls, a chair turned to the window, a small table with a glass of water prepared for him. Everything looked like a pre-prepared theatre stage.

The therapist invited him in, took a small recorder, placed it on the small table, and pressed the small record button. Click. A small sound he barely noticed anymore.

“When was the last time you managed to sleep … without waking up?”

Without hesitation, without warning, the question fell softly.

He thought about it and sighed.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s good,” said the therapist. “We’re not looking for certainty here; we’re looking for patterns to build on.”

He understood patterns, things that repeated themselves in a minor and annoying cycle.

The therapist listened attentively as he talked about the bus, the meeting and the banner and took some notes in his notebook.

“And at night?”

He paused for a long time. He could change the words, he could rephrase them, but the truth remained the same.

“During the day, I wear a mask, and the night is when the mask comes off—and nothing underneath knows what to do.”

The therapist wrote something down again and continued to the point.

“What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

“I walk,” he said.

“Where?”

“Without direction, far from here.”

The therapist nodded for the first time that night, but it wasn’t approvingly, more like someone already familiar with this diagnosis.

“Do you talk to yourself while you walk?”

“No,” he frowned.

“Do you ever catch yourself answering back?”

The question was rather odd, as if it were more personal than the others. And he opened his mouth to answer, and the words just got stuck in his throat. And at that moment, he remembered for a moment how he was sitting at home, hunched over in the chair by the window, his phone in his hand, the Notes app open, and inside it was a line he had written to himself: “The worst thing about me is that I believe in myself.”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, knowing that wasn’t true.

The therapist pressed his pen harder, almost tearing the paper.

“Next time, bring the device” he said calmly.

“What device” he looked at the therapist in surprise.

“The thing you’re recording with.”

A chill ran through him, as if that sounded familiar.

“But… I’m not recording” he said unconvincingly.

The therapist didn’t argue; he just looked at the table. And he instinctively looked there. And there was the recorder—a standard one. The same one he kept in the junk drawer in the kitchen. For some reason, he stored all his receipts there too.

His heart skipped a beat, the therapist pressed the small stop button, and the click was much louder this time, almost echoing.

“We’re done for today.”

He got up from his chair, out of the office, out of the waiting room, out of the building, as if his body was following orders even as his mind was breaking.

Outside, the rain hit his face, almost bringing him back to reality.

The phone vibrated again—not with a payment this time, but with a notification from the bank that had been delayed.

He opened it. Only because his hand was shaking and he needed something to hold.

He entered the transaction and saw the detail he had never looked at.

To: I. [last name] — Savings pot: THERAPY

Reference: SESSION

He stared until his eyes burned.

He pays himself.

The rain didn’t feel real anymore. The street didn’t either.

He put the phone away and walked home without thinking. When he unlocked the door, the apartment greeted him with its cleanliness—the same pretentious cleanliness that seemed like success during the day and emptiness at night.

He took off his shoes and stood in the hallway for a second or two. Then he walked toward the kitchen, as if his feet knew something before he did.

The drawer opened with a slight scraping and the recorder was there. Beside it was a folder with a folded edge, as if he had opened it often, and on the cover, in his handwriting, was written:

FOR WHEN I CAN’T

He opened it and inside were printed extracts, notes, questions and answers. Some were written as if by someone who believed he would get better, others as if by someone who just wanted to last another week.

On the last page was a disturbing sentence.

“If you’re reading this, you made it to the next week.”

He sat down simply because his knees decided for him.

He looked at the recorder, his finger hovering over “REC”.

On the screen: SESSION_12 / SESSION_13 / SESSION_14

Last recorded: Today — 18:02

And for the first time, there was no therapist to ask a question. There was no office. There was no trial. It was just him—and the fact that he was alive, even though there was no proof that he should be.

The click sounded like the beginning.

“When was the last time you managed to sleep … without waking up?” said the voice.

And he froze, because the voice wasn’t a therapist’s.

It was his.