It's work. It always has been.

I read the email once. Or… maybe twice? Or maybe I am just staring at the words for a while. I close the tab and take a deep breath, reaching for my coffee.

It’s cold, I think. Nelly must have picked it earlier today.

My gaze falls on the papers stacked carefully on the right side of my office; the cases for today. Five folders. One is bigger than the others. That’s because I’ve been working longer with this client. He is scheduled for 9:00 am, I remember scheduling the appointment with him last week. He came right after Oliver left.

“Ms. Hudson, I just got the email and-”, Nelly stops in her tracks, her voice softer now. “Are you alright?”

I hadn’t noticed the tear, that had now fallen on our 9 o’ clock patient’s folder. I simply close the dampened papers and smile at her with glassy eyes.

“Well, you know how those things are. You are always prepared for these incidents, but that doesn’t make it less difficult to process.” I shift in my chair, fidgeting with the hem of my jacket.

“You sound calm, but your actions suggest otherwise.”, she nods at my hands, a smirk ghosting her lips.

A small laugh – that I much needed – escaped my mouth, letting more tears fall from the sudden movement. “Trying to psychoanalyze the psychologist, young apprentice?”, I tease her. Standing from my chair to get a tissue, I feel her eyes narrowing down my movements. “To answer your previous question, no. I am not okay, but I’ll manage. These things happen.” I turn my back on her and fix my eyes on the view outside the window. “You can’t hold yourself accountable for them.”, I whisper to Nelly. Or to myself.

My first client came and left. So did the other four. Despite my emotional state, this is work. It always has been. The sessions were all promising for each patient and the same program was scheduled for next week.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”, I smile sadly at Nelly.

“Yeah, tomorrow…”. We leave the office, both fully aware that tomorrow we are not going to see each other at work.

After putting my son to sleep - with extra hugs and goodnight stories – I feel strong hands wrapping around my waist and a head resting on my shoulder.

“What are you doing spying on our boy?”, I chuckle at his joke, but the smile didn’t quite reach my ears.

“I’m just watching him sleep. Dream. Breath.”

He turns me around slowly, making me face him; my beautiful husband. His hands move to cup my face, his thumb drawing small circles of comfort and love on my cheek. A sigh leaves my lips and I kiss his hand.

“Come on.”, he whispers softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

I didn’t exactly sleep. I didn’t sleep at all actually. Of course, I told Alex what happened and he made sure to comfort me in ways only he could. But I guess that worked temporally. In my dreams, all I could see was him. No, them. The first time we met. I hold myself back to not fangirl over his- their hoodie and instead saying “Let me guess, ‘You are Chandler and you’re making awkward jokes when you’re uncomfortable?’”. It was all I needed to break the ice with them. You need that with teenagers. They didn’t share much at first. They had humor and that was very helpful. It’s always beautiful for a therapist to watch someone slowly open up. To notice how in each session people walk out as in someone pulled a little more weight of their shoulders. But we do know, as therapists, that most of the times, things will get worse before they get better. Some manage to pull through. Some not.

I’m thinking all of that again here, now. The atmosphere is heavy. As if the weather knows, it started drizzling ten minutes ago. There are so many people in the ceremony, all holding their umbrellas and wearing big sunglasses. Even though there is no sun. I get it. They cover the pain. If one of us see the pain in the other’s eyes, we’d get physically hurt. I don’t believe in the whole be-strong-and-tough-with-no-emotions act though. This is the time, in a ceremony like this, that society lets people to mourn. To feel deeply. To say goodbye. But, saying goodbye to such a young soul seems unfair. No one wants to say it.

Their family are shaking everyone’s hand and thanking them for coming. Until I reached them, my heart was racing a thousand miles per hour. A tiny part of me was still afraid, that they were going to blame me, even though they made it very clear they didn’t, when they invited me yesterday. I wonder, if that fear is, because I blame me.

I stand in front of them, looking at a pair of very tired people. Tired from sleepless nights. From crying. From wondering if they did something different, maybe they could help him more. I try to speak and my throat closes. I desperately want to say sorry. But I mustn’t. It is not my fault. Instead, I manage to say “I’m so sorry for your loss.” with a shaky breath. Suddenly, the mother leans forward and hugs me tightly. Lovingly.

“Thank you so much. You helped him… them, as much as you could. Never – ever! – let yourself think differently.”, she whispers.

I can hear my heart shutter. Correction; I can hear it gluing itself back together. Maybe it was the words. Or the hug was so tight that she fixed it. I hug her back, professionalism leaving my mind immediately. All that was left was me, her and the care we had for them.

 Finding Nelly in the crowd, we decide to stand together for a while, all the other people going to the coffee house across the street. The rain had stopped now, the scent of wet grass everywhere. The stone in front of us looks heavier than the others around us. It feels like I carry a small part of it.

“Do me a favor, Nelly, would you?”. My young assistant nods gently at my unmoving gaze. I can’t stop looking at their name. “Schedule me an appointment with Dr. Lang. I … I need a session.”

“Of course.”. She pulls at her phone as I make my way closer to the gray stone.

 “Goodbye kid.”. I brush my fingertips over the engraved name; Oliver / Ver Mathews.