Dirty Therapy

Noah Vance slid out of the interview room, his face masked with a practiced smile. Flashing cameras and eager reporters trailed behind him, but inside he felt hollow, like a ghost wearing his own skin. The questions were the usual upcoming projects, inspirations, personal life. Every answer was tuned, every smile was rehearsed. But Noah wasn’t okay. Backstage, his manager, Clara, waited impatiently for him. She watched Noah peel off his facade like a second skin, his tight smile dissolving into a grimace. Clara had seen this before, the cracks beneath the surface, the quick flashes of anger, the exhaustion that no amount of fame could cure. “Noah,” Clara said softly, catching him just as he reached for his coat. “We need to talk.” Noah’s jaw clenched. “Can it wait? I’m exhausted.” “It can’t,” she said firmly. “Your last outburst on set,it’s not the first time you’re burning out and if you don’t get help, it’s only going to get worse.” Noah looked away, swallowing down the irritation rising in his chest. Therapy wasn’t something he wanted to admit he needed. It was a weakness, a c***k in the perfect image he’d built but Clara was persistent. “I’ve found someone,” she continued, pulling a small card from her bag. Dr. Roy Miller. He’s discreet and professional, no tabloids and no drama.” Noah stared at the card, It looked simple and unpredictable, like everything about Roy Miller. “A therapist?” “Yes, you don’t have to do this alone, “she said. Noah’s eyes flickered with something Clara hadn’t seen in a long time, his hesitation. “I don’t know if it’ll help,” he said. “You won’t know unless you try.” Noah pocketed the card without another word and walked out. Later that evening, Noah sat alone in his penthouse, the city lights dazzling on his windows, he looked at card in his pocket. He turned it over again and again. The name Roy Miller was like a whisper in the silence. The truth was, Noah was scared. He was scared that therapy would peel back the layers he’d fought so hard to build, scared of what he’d find beneath the surface and most of all, he was scared of losing control. But maybe he didn’t want to be so controlled anymore. The next morning, Clara called again. “Have you called him?” Noah hesitated. “Not yet.” “Let me make the appointment. Just go, all you need is a session. If you hate it, you never have to go back.” Noah’s phone buzzed with a message from Clara: “Appointment confirmed tomorrow by 3 PM.” On the day of the appointment, Noah paced his penthouse. His mind was a whirlpool of doubts. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It was flawless, confident but tired. He almost turned away. At 2:50 PM, Noah stood outside the unassuming door of Roy Miller’s clinic. He could hear muffled voices inside, calm, steady and a faint scent of lavender. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped. What was he doing? This was not him. Noah Vance, the star. Not the broken man afraid to face his past. His heart hammered in his chest as he debated. Did he really want to step inside? Did he want to open that door? Suddenly, the door creaked open. A man appeared. He was tall, with dark thoughtful eyes that seemed to see right through Noah. The kind of eyes that made you want to hide and yet want to stay. “Noah Vance?” the man asked softly. Noah stood still wandering what to do next. Was this the man Clara said could help him? Or was this the beginning of something he wasn’t Prepared for?