CHAPTER 4 Paper Cups and Heavy Eyes
1355 Words
Friday, November 16, 2018
Thorne Psychiatric Institute, Blackwater City
4:07 PM
The sky above Blackwater City looked swollen with rain by the time Elena stepped off the bus.
Cold wind pushed through the street hard enough to sting her ears beneath the beanie. Traffic crawled sluggishly through puddles while people hurried past with umbrellas angled like shields.
Elena remained across the street from the institute for nearly two full minutes pretending to adjust her coat sleeve.
Second session.
That felt embarrassingly significant.
The first visit could still be blamed on panic and exhaustion. Returning meant she had made the choice consciously.
Which somehow made her more nervous.
She checked her reflection briefly in the glass of a parked car.
Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Hair refusing to cooperate near the edges of her beanie.
Same brown coat from last week.
Fantastic.
A horn blared somewhere nearby.
Elena crossed the street quickly before she could change her mind again.
Warm air folded around her the moment she entered the institute.
Soft piano music drifted through hidden speakers overhead. The scent of cedarwood and coffee lingered faintly beneath the warmth.
Jasmine Pike looked up immediately from behind the reception desk.
“Well,” she announced, “either you’re making emotional progress or Doctor Thorne has mastered mind control.”
Elena paused mid step.
“I knew I should’ve read the consent forms better.”
Jasmine pointed at her proudly.
“That was sarcasm. Healthy people sarcasm.”
“I don’t think that’s medically recognized.”
“It should be.”
Elena shook her head quietly as she signed in.
The waiting room looked almost identical to last week. Cream colored chairs. Tall bookshelves. Artificial fireplace. The octopus painting still hanging above it with stubborn confidence.
She stared at it suspiciously.
It somehow looked sadder today.
An older man near the far corner slept with a gardening magazine open against his chest while a woman in a red coat typed furiously into her phone.
Nobody looked at Elena.
She folded her hands together tightly anyway.
Nine ceiling panels.
Three lamps.
Five framed certificates behind the desk.
The counting arrived automatically.
A soft elevator ding echoed somewhere deeper inside the building.
Then footsteps approached from the hallway.
Steady.
Measured.
Elena looked up instinctively.
Adrian emerged carrying two paper cups and a thin folder tucked beneath one arm. His dark coat was missing today, leaving the sleeves of his charcoal dress shirt rolled neatly to his forearms.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
Jasmine leaned forward immediately.
“You brought her tea before bringing me coffee again. This workplace has favorites.”
“You threatened to microwave fish in the staff kitchen.”
“One time.”
“It lingered for two days.”
“It was culturally enriching.”
A laugh escaped Elena before she could stop it.
Jasmine pointed dramatically.
“There. Actual joy.”
Elena hid part of her face behind her sleeve.
“You’re unbearable.”
“And yet beloved.”
Adrian held one of the paper cups toward Elena.
Chamomile.
The warmth spread lightly against her fingers as she accepted it.
“Thank you.”
His gaze lingered on her for a brief second before shifting toward the folder beneath his arm.
“You almost canceled twice this afternoon.”
Elena blinked.
“What?”
“The appointment portal logs cancellation attempts.”
Her stomach dropped slightly.
“Oh.”
Wonderful.
Apparently even her anxiety left paperwork behind.
Adrian took a sip from his own coffee.
“You still came.”
The embarrassment lingered hot beneath her skin.
“Now I feel psychologically monitored.”
“You are literally in psychiatric care.”
“That’s annoyingly fair.”
Something faint moved through his expression then. Brief enough to disappear almost immediately.
Not amusement exactly.
Something quieter.
He gestured lightly toward the hallway.
“Come with me.”
The terrifying part was how naturally she followed.
Rain began tapping softly against the windows by the time they entered his office.
Jazz drifted low from the record player near the bookshelf while warm amber light softened the darker corners of the room.
The office no longer felt intimidating in the same way.
That realization unsettled her more than the room itself.
Elena sat carefully on the couch while Adrian settled into the armchair across from her.
Today there was no notebook immediately in his hands.
Only the coffee cup resting loosely against his knee.
“How was your weekend?” he asked.
The question sounded ordinary enough to make her suspicious.
“Uneventful.”
“That answer usually means disappointing.”
“I applied for jobs.”
“And?”
“One rejection email.” She paused. “Very passionate rejection email actually.”
“How bad?”
“They thanked me for my courage.”
Adrian lowered his coffee slightly.
“That’s cruel.”
“I know. Just reject me professionally. Don’t make it inspirational.”
A small silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable.
The kind that had room inside it.
Outside, rainwater streaked slowly down the windows overlooking downtown Blackwater City.
Elena wrapped both hands around the paper cup.
Heat against cold fingers.
Grounding.
“You slept poorly,” Adrian said after a moment.
She glanced up immediately.
“Do I look that bad?”
“You look tired.”
“That’s kinder wording.”
“You dislike kindness?”
The question caught her slightly off guard.
Elena frowned into her tea.
“I dislike fake kindness.”
“And real kindness?”
She hesitated.
“That usually comes with conditions.”
The room remained quiet after that.
No immediate therapist response.
No reassuring speech.
Adrian only watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“Who taught you that?”
The question landed carefully.
Too carefully.
Elena’s grip tightened slightly around the cup.
There it was.
The pressure point beneath the conversation.
Not forceful.
Just precise.
She looked toward the bookshelf instead of answering immediately.
Most of the titles looked medical, though a few novels sat scattered between them.
Kafka.
Plath.
Dostoevsky.
Comforting choices for a psychiatrist.
“You read depressing books professionally or recreationally?” she asked.
“Deflection noted.”
“I’m talented at it.”
“So I’m learning.”
The response arrived smoothly enough that she looked at him again.
No irritation.
No push for an answer.
But he had not let the question disappear either.
Interesting.
Elena took a careful sip of tea to buy herself another few seconds.
The jazz humming softly through the office sounded older than the room itself. Scratched vinyl. Warm brass instruments. The kind of music people listened to while smoking near windows in old movies.
“You know what’s strange?” she murmured quietly.
“What?”
“This place doesn’t feel like a clinic.”
Adrian leaned back slightly in the chair.
“What does it feel like?”
Elena glanced around again.
The bookshelves.
The low music.
Rain against the windows.
The warm lighting.
His steady attention sitting across from her without rushing to fill silence.
“Like the sort of room people confess things in by accident.”
For the first time since she had met him, Adrian looked genuinely caught off guard.
Tiny shift.
Barely there.
Then gone again.
“That’s an unusually specific observation.”
“It’s the jazz,” she said quickly. “Makes everything feel suspiciously personal.”
A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth.
“There’s the deflection again.”
Elena groaned softly into her tea.
“You make conversations feel like traps.”
“No,” Adrian said calmly. “I make them difficult to escape.”
The answer settled heavily between them.
Not flirtation.
Not comfort.
Something stranger.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows while the city blurred softly beyond the glass.
Elena looked down at the paper cup in her hands, turning it slowly between her fingers.
Across from her, Adrian finally reached for the thin folder resting beside him.
But instead of opening it immediately, he asked quietly:
“What happened the first time someone called you difficult?”
- Writer
