Monday morning arrived gray and quiet, the city wrapped in the soft drizzle of early autumn. Elliot hadn't slept well. He hadn't wanted to, really — the weekend had been long, a mixture of empty hours, half-formed thoughts, and the gnawing ache of guilt for everything he couldn't fix about himself.
Noah sat at the edge of the couch, drinking a mug of coffee, reading an old paperback. He didn't look up when the doorbell rang; he already knew who it was.
Dr. Harper's presence was as calm as ever when he stepped inside, the faint scent of cedar and soap following him. "Good morning, Elliot," he said softly. "How was the weekend?"
Elliot shrugged, avoiding eye contact. His jaw was tight, and the dark circles under his eyes had deepened.
Noah stood, gesturing for Dr. Harper to sit. "It was… rough," he admitted, voice low. "But we made it through."
Dr. Harper nodded. "Good. That's what matters." He glanced at Elliot. "Shall we sit?"
Elliot hesitated, then sank into the armchair opposite him, arms folded tightly. His notebook from a few weeks ago sat on the coffee table. He didn't reach for it.
Dr. Harper gave a gentle smile. "No pressure to write today. Or to speak if you don't want to. I'm just here."
Elliot's eyes flicked toward him, wary, almost defensive. "I… I don't know if I can," he admitted quietly. "I can't… I can't be like… everyone else. I don't… I don't understand people. I never have."
Noah's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Elliot tensed at first, then relaxed just a fraction, enough for the warmth to seep in.
Dr. Harper leaned forward slightly, voice soft but steady. "That's alright. You don't have to understand everyone to exist alongside them. Sometimes, it's enough to just… notice."
Elliot's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to say that noticing wasn't enough. "I've always been… alone," he said finally. "Even as a kid. I tried to make friends, I never could."
His voice faltered, and the memories came rushing back — the teachers who called him 'awkward' or 'odd,' the classmates who left him out of games he didn't fully understand, the endless trial-and-error of learning social cues that seemed instinctive for others. No one explained that he was autistic; no one taught him how to navigate the world that didn't seem built for people like him. He had had to figure it out himself — painstakingly, painfully, over years of observation and mistakes.
Dr. Harper nodded slowly. "That sense of isolation… it's familiar to you. And it's real. But it doesn't have to define your now. There are people here — people who care — and I think they're willing to stay, even when it's hard."
Elliot swallowed, his eyes darting to Noah as if seeking permission to let himself crumble. "I… I can't… I can't fix this. I can't… be…" He trailed off, voice breaking.
"You don't have to fix it," Dr. Harper said. "Not today. Not alone. You only have to be here, now, for this moment. That's enough."
Noah's grip on his shoulder tightened gently. "You're not alone. You've got people who won't leave. You don't have to handle this by yourself."
Elliot's chest heaved with quiet sobs. It had been too long since he'd let himself collapse like this — too long since he had allowed someone else to carry even a fragment of his weight.
Dr. Harper waited, as he always did, without pressing. "Sometimes, letting someone in… even a little… is the first step toward understanding that you can survive this," he said quietly.
The therapist's words hung in the air, tangible and solid. Elliot's hands gripped the chair arms tightly. "I don't… I don't want to hurt anyone," he whispered.
"You won't," Noah reassured him. "Not if you let us help. That's what friends are for, Elliot. That's why I stayed all weekend. That's why I'm here for you. You don't have to be strong alone."
Elliot's breath hitched, and he leaned slightly against Noah's hand, seeking grounding, seeking proof that he didn't have to be invincible.
Dr. Harper's notebook remained closed. Instead, he simply spoke about small, manageable steps: noticing feelings without judgment, acknowledging moments of pain, letting someone witness them without shame. He didn't demand words, didn't require confessions. He offered patience, presence, and a map of slow progress.
Noah spoke quietly between them, grounding Elliot with reminders of the weekend: "You made it. You got out of bed. You ate. You let me sit with you. That's progress. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
The morning passed like this — slow, deliberate, unhurried. Elliot's tension ebbed and flowed, broken by quiet sighs, interrupted by moments of stillness. By the time Dr. Harper stood to leave, a small shift had occurred: Elliot wasn't perfectly calm, wasn't smiling, wasn't fixed. But he hadn't retreated entirely either. He had stayed. He had allowed himself to be seen, to be helped.
Before leaving, Dr. Harper knelt slightly, placing a hand briefly on Elliot's arm. "We'll meet again tomorrow. And remember — you don't have to do it alone. Not ever."
As the door clicked closed, Elliot slumped back into the armchair, exhausted, but strangely lighter. Noah remained seated beside him, silent, letting him breathe in the quiet. The weekend had been survived, the storm had passed, and for the first time in a long time, Elliot could imagine tomorrow — not as a threat, but as the next step.