Beneath The Surface

It was raining. Not in the cinematic kind of way, not soft mist or dramatic thunder. Just the kind that painted the windows in sheets and made the world look like it was blurring at the edges. I hated the sound of it. Too reminiscent of the nights I’d prefer not to remember.

Here I sat, stiff in the waiting room chair, legs spread, elbows on my knees, twirling and knotting my hair in impatience. My jacket was soaked at the shoulders. Not bothering with an umbrella probably shouldn't have been the move today. My hood was up, casting shadows over my face, but the receptionist had already said she’d “be with you shortly,” so I said nothing. Just stared at the framed photograph on the wall across from me, some beach scene, obviously meant to soothe. It didn’t.

There was a clock ticking somewhere behind me. It clicked every second like a metronome, too loud in such heavy silence. The longer I waited, the more irritated I became.

I pulled my hood down, not missing the receptionist’s gaze. Pretty girl, blonde, the kind who’d rather be at a frat party than an office desk. Claire, if I read her name tag right. I avoided her face as much as possible.

My eyes were tired. My resting face always looked accusatory. I blinked and scanned the door across from me. Hart Therapy & Wellness – A. Hart, LCSW.

This was a mistake. Just another agent-pushed “breakthrough” idea after my deadline passed six months ago. “Talk to someone,” they said. “Get unblocked.” I didn’t need someone to fix me. I needed quiet. Time. Not… this.

But still, I was here. Which meant something. Even if I hadn’t figured out what.

The office door opened with a soft click. I looked up. And the moment I saw her, my breath did something strange, it paused, for half a second. She was not what I expected. I didn’t stand at first. Then she spoke.

“Emerson, right? I’m Adina Hart, your new therapist. Come on in,” she said, turning on her heel, leaving the door open.

Something about the way she said my name made me pause, too soft, too smooth. Not clinical. Not detached. My fingers flexed on my knees before I finally pushed myself up to my full height, brushing the front of my jacket flat. My shirt clung slightly from the rain, collar still damp, but I didn’t care.

My eyes settled on Miss Adina Hart as I stepped into motion. She was…not what I expected. I thought my therapist would be older. Colder. Someone with flat eyes and an annoying voice that spoke in memorized scripts. But she was young, my age, maybe a couple years younger. Her features were elegant but real. A little undone in the best way, strands of hair slipping free from a tightly tied bun that sat at the base of her neck, clothes pressed but not stiff. Her eyes were large and brown and blinking slowly, like they were taking me in.

I didn’t sit yet. Just stood, taking in the space. The scent hit me first, something floral, subtle. It was warm. Safe.

“You don’t look like a shrink,” I said, voice low.

My lips curved slightly.

She scoffed softly, taking a seat across from the couch. “Well, I might not look the part, but I spent about four years as a full-time student at NYU that says otherwise.” She nodded toward her degree on the wall.

I sat down. “Alright then. Where shall I start today, Miss Hart?”

“Well Mr. Kade, tell me a little about yourself, why are you here to talk to me today? No need to rush any long stories, we have about an hour and a half and I am ready to listen through it all,” her voice was soft and understanding, the lightness completely casting over the blandness I’m sure she heard in my voice.

I settled into the couch deeper, the cushion sighing beneath me. One of my hands reached to idly tug the chain at my neck, the ring that hung around it slipping from under my collar for a second before disappearing again. I didn’t answer right away. I just let the silence stretch for a moment, silence that probably would have made lesser therapists fill it with a clearing of the throat or a cough. But not her. I could tell. She sat still, calm, waiting. Letting me take the lead.

“She’s good,” I thought.

“I’m here,” I said finally, “because the people on my publishing team think I’m going insane.” My tone was flat, but not sarcastic. I looked down at my hands, knuckles still rough from a fight with a punching bag two nights ago. Then back at her.

I looked at my hands, rough knuckles still healing. Then back at her.

“I’ve been stuck. Haven’t written in nine months. Can’t sleep. Can’t think straight for long. I forget to eat. I forget what day it is. I’ll go on these long-ass walks and end up miles away from home without realizing it. And… apparently, that’s a red flag.” I pause.

My eyes find hers once again.

“But I’m not crazy. Just broken in ways I know how to manage. Or… used to.”

My jaw tensed. I studied her, waiting for a reaction. She must have noticed, because she calmly set her notepad down on the table and crossed one leg over the other.

“How badly do you want to write again?” she asked.

I stilled. Her question cracked something open.

“I don’t even know if I do,” I admitted.

My fingers ran through my damp hair, pushing it back and out of my face. “For years it was the only thing that made sense. The one thing I was good at. I’d get up before the sun, write until my hands cramped. My last book? I wrote the entire first draft in nineteen days. Barely ate. Barely slept. I was in it. Fully submerged. And now?” I shrugged. “Now I stare at a blank document until I start pacing like a fucking caged animal.”

My jaw worked. She was looking at me like I was a person. Not a case. It threw me.

I thought for a moment, “Have you ever been good at something,” I said, “so good it becomes your whole identity? And then one day you wake up and it’s gone? Like a missing limb. And suddenly everyone’s still looking at you, expecting you to perform, to deliver, to be this thing you used to be, but it's just… gone?”

I know my face is scrunched now, irritated. Not with Adina and her stupidly gorgeous brown eyes that fail to leave my face. But with myself. I’m such as fucking loser.

“I think that’s why I want to write again. Because writing was how I breathed. Now that I’m stuck, I can’t fucking breathe.”

My voice almost broke. Almost.

She clears her throat before speaking, “I can see you’re frustrated with yourself, and that’s okay, to not be able to do something that has always come naturally to you must be hard.” I search her tone for any signs of pity, but fail to find any. “I won’t say I know how you feel, because I don’t. Only you know how you feel, Emerson. But I want to ask you this, has writing really been your passion after it stopped being a hobby? Or did it just become something you chose to fill your time with because it put dinner on the table and a roof over your head? Don’t get me wrong, I can see that love for words in the way you speak. But, is this what you really want to be doing right now? Writing until your hands cramp up and your computer dies?”

That hit something raw.

“You know what’s funny?” I said. “No one’s ever asked me that. Not my agent. Not even the woman I lived with for four years.”

“I started writing as a kid. Dumb stories, poems. It quieted the noise. Dad was military. Mom left early. Writing was where I didn’t have to perform.”

My thumb ran along the edge of my knuckle as I spoke.

“But then I published something. It took off. Next thing I know I’m being told to write faster. Push harder. Be better. Every story I put out stopped being mine and started becoming a product. Deadlines. Awards. Interviews. Book tours.”

My voice softened. “I haven’t written for myself since I was twenty-one.” I was now thirty eight.

She didn’t look away. She just… stayed with me in it.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Doc,” I said. “I haven’t talked this much in years.”

Then, she did the funniest thing. She laughed. A light sound that carried through the air like a gentle autumn leaf. It wasn’t in a judgmental way, I could tell. Just something involuntary that must have been to relieve some of the tension that hung in the air.

“Well, I’m glad I scratched the right nerves,” she said. And she said my name again, like it meant something.

“You’re dangerous,” I muttered, almost to myself.

Then she hit me with another one.

“Who and what do you love, Mr. Kade?”

I blinked.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Used to be words. Stories. Silence. That feeling of finishing a book at three in the morning with music playing and the city asleep around me.”

I exhaled slowly.

“But now? Now I’m not sure I love anything.”

I asked her the same question, almost hoping she’d give an equally messy answer.

She looked surprised. Then thoughtful. Like she was glad to see me engaging in this like it was more of a conversation rather than her job.

“I love a lot of things. But to keep it simple and pretty general, I love the human mind. The brain is the most complex part of the human body. It allows us to learn, to love, to understand. Being able to understand your own brain is something very few people have been able to do. Imagine trying to teach a flower that it has roots that span miles and miles each and every day. It’s not exactly easy. So, I love the complexity behind being able to feel emotions and feel everything deeply thanks to that ball of mush that sits in our skulls.”

I stared at her. She was a poem. One I wanted to read over and over.

“You’re not like most people,” I said. “You talk like you see beneath the skin.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, more quietly this time, softer than anything I’ve said all session “Do you ever wish you could turn it off?”

It wasn’t rhetorical. There was weight behind it. Like I was looking for a way to do just that.

My eyes, dark and tired, searched hers again, not for analysis, not for notes on a clipboard, but for something human.

“Turning your brain off wouldn’t help you,” she said gently. “You’re overwhelmed because you feel deeply. And that’s not a weakness. That’s life.”

“You talk like you trust the body more than the mind,” I murmured.

“My body’s tired,” I said finally. “I sleep four hours a night. Some nights I don’t at all. My chest hurts for no reason. Sometimes I wake up and it feels like I’m forgetting something important, even though I haven’t lost a thing.”

I turned toward her, eyes heavy.

“What happens when your body gets tired of screaming and just... stops? Because I think mine’s getting there.”

Adina took it in. Then: "Some individuals just simply find comfort in solitude and introspection that can accompany sadness. This can be a personal preference and not necessarily indicative of something wrong with you. This is different from depression which is typically more on the negative side which can lead to things such as suicidal thoughts or ideation."

“I used to think solitude made me powerful,” I said finally. “That locking myself away to write, to be alone with my thoughts, that it made me deeper. Smarter. Untouchable. But now? I don’t know. Lately solitude just feels like..a punishment.”

And then I said it. Quietly.

“Is it normal to crave connection but not know how to let someone in?”

"Emerson.." she says in a light tone, like a lover comforting her husband after a long day. "Everyone, every human, every living and breathing thing on earth craves connection. Humans hold hands, place gentle kisses upon each other's lips, hugging and holding one another. Animals snuggle up against one another, nestling their heads into warm necks, licking and pawing at each other as they wander landscapes. Plants dig their roots deep into the dirt, expanding their equivalent of hands out to one another, their connection to the earth running deeper than most."

She then sighed and got up, returning with a small notebook.

She handed me the notebook, a soft smile on her pink hued lips. Once I took it, she tapped the cover before sitting in the open spot next to me. I take a moment to let the soft vanilla scent of her perfume wash over me.

"Our time is almost up for today, but I wanted to give you this before we part ways. In this notebook, I wanted you to try and write down how you felt about today's session here, and between now and next Thursday I want you to try and find an answer to the questions you answered with 'I don't know’ and write them down in here. Then, when we meet again next week I want you to read them to me. Write for yourself. You’re not publishing these, they won't see an editor. Just write, see how that makes you feel, okay?" She tilts her head with a kind smile.

I stared at the notebook.

I used to buy them in stacks, line them up on shelves, fill them with messy handwriting and half-formed ideas. Somewhere along the way, they'd become intimidating. Useless. White pages that mocked me upon the shelves. Now, holding this one, her notebook, her gesture; it felt different. Not pressure.

“You talk about people like you’re not one of them,” I murmured. “Like you’re outside it all, watching.” This caused her to laugh yet again, and I let that sound practically drown me as it fell.

“I’ll try,” I said, gesturing to the notebook. “No promises.”

She smiled. “No promises needed. Just try. For me.”

Then she said, “I see you, Emerson Kade. Bleeding wounds and all.”

My breath caught.

It echoed in me like a bell in an empty church. Loud. Clear. Haunting.

No one had said they saw me in a long time.

So I nodded. Just once. Slow. Heavy. A promise tucked inside that silence.

Then I stood, rising to meet her eye to eye. The notebook is still in my hand. The weight of her voice still wrapped around me like a thread I couldn’t see but couldn’t shake.

“I’ll see you next Thursday,” I said. My voice sounded different. Softer. Stripped of the usual sarcasm, the usual armor.

And just before I turned for the door, I lingered, for half a second longer than I should’ve. Let my eyes trace her face like I was trying to memorize it, every piece of it.

I didn’t say anything as I passed Claire who sat behind the receptionists desk clicking away on the computer, just gave her a curt nod.

Outside, the pavement still glistened from the earlier rain. The air smelled sharp and clean, like the kind of quiet that only shows up after a storm. I stood there on the sidewalk, notebook still in hand, unmoving while the rest of the world kept going, cars rushing by, people drifting past in their own little orbits. But I just stood still, staring down at the notebook like it was ticking. Like it might open on its own.

‘Write for yourself. No editors. No one else’s eyes. Just you.’

Her voice played in my head, clear as anything. And it wasn’t clinical, it wasn’t the voice of a therapist giving instructions. It was something else. It was the voice of someone who actually believed in me. Even when I didn’t. And that, God, that’s what fucked me up the most.

I should’ve left. Called a car. Walked anywhere but here. But instead, I sat down, slowly, on the bench just outside her building. Legs spread a little, notebook resting on my lap.

I tapped my pen against the edge. Then wrote:

“Today I met a woman named Adina Hart, and she looked at me like I was still alive.”

Then:

“And for the first time in a long time, I think I want to be.”