Chapter Twenty-Four – The Circle Without Them
1092 Words
The therapy room was exactly as it always was: chairs in a neat circle, a faint smell of coffee and disinfectant, the quiet hum of the old radiator. Yet Elena felt the imbalance the moment she walked in. The space itself seemed to recognize who wasn’t there.
When the group arrived, their eyes betrayed the same thought. Two seats remained empty. No Chloe. No Vincent. The absence loomed larger than any presence could.
Elena smoothed her skirt and sat with careful posture. “Let’s begin,” she said, her tone as level as she could manage.
Jessica folded her arms. “So we’re just… pretending they don’t matter?”
Elena’s mouth twitched. “No one is pretending. They made their choices. But this group doesn’t stop because someone is missing. Each of you is here for yourselves.”
A murmur of reluctant agreement passed around the circle, though several gazes kept darting back to the vacant chairs, as if they were ghosts occupying them.
Peter shifted in his seat, knee bouncing like a staccato drumbeat. His eyes caught Elena’s and then skittered away. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I… I should say something.”
Elena gave a small nod. “The floor is yours, Peter.”
His voice came haltingly at first. “I slipped. Last night. Or maybe the night before. Doesn’t matter. I told myself I could handle the temptation, but I couldn’t. I ran into an old friend, and one thing led to another… We ended up in bed.”
The words hung heavy. Some nodded in silent recognition, others stiffened.
Elena clasped her hands loosely in her lap. “What happened afterward?” she asked gently.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting around the circle. “At first, it felt—” He stopped, swallowing. “It felt like the best thing in the world. Like my body remembered something it had been starving for. Every touch was—” His face flushed. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t go into detail.”
“You can share what you’re comfortable with,” Elena said, forcing her voice to remain calm.
Peter hesitated, then pressed on. “It wasn’t just the act. It was the way I lost control. I kept telling myself: one drink, one kiss, just for the night. But the second she put her hands on me, my brain shut down. Nothing mattered but more. I didn’t want to stop. And afterward… afterward I hated myself for how much I wanted it again.”
The words vibrated in the air, and the group shifted in their seats. Jessica scoffed under her breath, muttering about excuses. Another man nodded, a flicker of empathy in his eyes.
But Elena—Elena felt something else entirely.
She should have felt compassion. She should have registered the shame in Peter’s voice, the familiar struggle of someone caught in the cycle of compulsion. But instead her body betrayed her. A tremor rolled down her spine. Heat pooled low in her stomach, subtle but undeniable. Each phrase he spoke painted images she didn’t want: hands on skin, the headlong rush into oblivion, the dizzying inability to stop.
Her fingers curled tighter around the arm of her chair. No. Not here. Not now.
“Peter,” she said, her voice thinner than usual, “thank you for being honest. It’s important that you face this moment without hiding. What do you think triggered the slip?”
He looked up, shame clouding his eyes. “Loneliness. The silence. I couldn’t stand it anymore. And when she smiled at me… I just caved.”
Elena nodded, throat dry. She forced herself to meet his gaze, to focus on the fear behind the confession. Yet her mind replayed the words—her hands were on me, nothing mattered but more—until her pulse throbbed in her ears.
She shifted in her chair, hoping no one noticed, adjusting her legs as if the position were uncomfortable. In truth, it was her own body she was trying to discipline, to hide.
Jessica broke in sharply. “So what, we’re just supposed to clap for him because he admits it? That’s not progress. That’s relapse.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the group. One of the younger women, Holly, shook her head. “At least he’s telling the truth. That counts.”
Elena let them speak, her mind buzzing. Usually, she could guide these conflicts with steady authority, reminding them of the rules: no judgment, no cruelty, space for honesty. But tonight her attention was fractured. She kept hearing Peter’s words, not his shame but his hunger. The way he described surrender. The way her body had responded against her will.
Her gaze slid, unbidden, to the empty chair where Vincent should have been. The sight jolted her like an electric wire. Even when he isn’t here, he’s here. He planted this in me. He’s bending me without touching me.
A wave of panic rose in her chest. You’re losing control. In your own room. In your own circle.
She straightened, drawing in a deep breath until her lungs hurt. “Peter,” she said firmly, reclaiming the floor. “Thank you for sharing. Slips happen. They don’t erase progress. What matters is that you recognized it and came here today instead of hiding.”
He nodded, relief flickering across his features.
Elena turned to the others. “Does anyone else want to share what they do when loneliness becomes overwhelming?”
The discussion moved on. Voices rose and fell. Holly spoke of late-night walks. Jessica admitted to burying herself in work. A young man confessed to endless scrolling through dating apps.
Elena nodded, prompted, guided. Outwardly, she was still the therapist. But inside, she was shaken. Her body still remembered the heat, the unwelcome thrill at Peter’s words. It terrified her more than anything Vincent had whispered. Because this hadn’t been Vincent. This had been her.
When the session ended, she dismissed the group with her usual calm. Smiles, nods, reminders to take care of themselves. The circle dissolved. Chairs scraped softly against the floor.
Only when the door closed behind the last of them did she let her shoulders sag. Her breath came ragged, her heart pounding. She pressed her palms flat to the table, as if to steady herself.
For the first time in her career, Elena wasn’t sure if she belonged in the chair at the head of the circle—or in one of the seats facing it.
- Writer
