"You do understand that you can't always control your partner's actions, don't you? She's an independent person, capable of making her own choices."
I stared at my therapist's face on the phone screen and knew she was right. Video calls were a convenient way to create the illusion of presence, even at a distance. Still, I would've preferred she couldn't see me roll my eyes at her words.
"Rationally, I know I can't lock Lisa up like a rare, beautiful bird in a cage, keeping her safe from the dangers of the world," I admitted, "but I can't do anything about this obsessive thought. I feel something coming. I just don't know from where, or when, or who will bring the threat into our lives."
My therapist propped her chin on her fist and squinted slightly.
"Have you talked to Lisa about why she came back from the event covered in paint?"
I stopped myself from correcting her mid-sentence. It wasn't paint. It was blood. Lisa had been doused in blood. I knew it, and she probably did too—but we both kept pretending otherwise, each of us dodging the uncomfortable truth. I stuck to the same story when speaking with the therapist. There was no sense in reopening that wound in our relationship.
"I tried to bring it up at first," I said, "but you have to understand—this isn't the right time. Lisa just lost her father. She tries to act normal around me, but I can feel the change in our dynamic. She's… slipping away. I feel like I'm losing her."
The therapist studied me with a steady, piercing gaze.
"Everyone grieves in their own way," she said gently. "If your girlfriend chooses to continue living as usual, is that necessarily bad? She knows she has you. You've made that clear, from what you've told me. But the decision to open up—that's hers. All you can do is wait until Lisa is ready to share her pain with you."
"But doesn't her silence mean she doesn't trust me?"
The therapist shrugged slightly.
"Right now, you're only interpreting her behavior through your own fears. Until you share your thoughts openly with her, the spiral of anxiety will keep tightening, and your mind will keep inventing new scenarios to worry about. Think about that." She folded her hands together and smiled softly. "Unfortunately, our time is up for today. What thoughts will you take away from this session—to reflect on before our next one?"
I exhaled heavily, puffing my cheeks, then locked my fingers behind my head. Rocking one leg over the other, I replayed the conversation in my mind, trying to distill it down to something meaningful. It didn't work. All I felt at the end of the session was greater unease and a dull, sinking emptiness.
How could she not understand?
I knew something terrible was about to happen. That feeling never went away—no matter how I tried to distract myself, it hovered just beneath the surface, ready to rise.
My heart belonged entirely to Lisa. And if anything happened to her again…
"I suppose," I finally said, "I should think about how real my worries actually are. About why I'm projecting them onto Lisa—and maybe try talking to her about it."
The therapist nodded approvingly.
"Excellent. The more you allow yourself to express what you feel, in a calm and trusting space, the sooner you might see that not every fear has real ground beneath it. I'll look forward to our next session—and your new insights. Enjoy your vacation, and message me when you're ready to book the next one."
"Yes, of course," I said with a faint smile. Inside, though, instead of the relief I'd hoped for, I felt only fatigue. "Thank you. Until next time."
When the call ended, I set the phone aside and sat still for a while, trying to gather my thoughts. Today's session had drained me more than I'd expected. Usually, after our talks, my head would clear; the gnawing anxiety would slink back into the dark corner of the closet for a while, leaving me in peace—at least until the next trigger appeared on the horizon.
That was how I lived, from one session to the next—trying to piece my life into something normal.
Trying to be the kind of man Lisa could rely on.
I had always wanted a real family—one without secrets, without those endless word games where each person tries to outwit the other and find something new to blame them for. That was how it had always been between my parents. For as long as I could remember, they fought. It was as if they simply didn't know how to communicate in any other way, how to show love through kindness, care, or tenderness. Instead came reproach, resentment, and anger for no reason at all. Any attempt to draw the other's attention would spiral into shouting, mutual irritation, and slammed doors.
I had tried to show them a different way, but I gave up quickly. My parents clung to their habits like two snakes tangled together—each tightening the knot of emotion, confusing pain for passion. The tighter they held on, the more they seemed to value that suffocating kind of love.
I wanted something else. Something better. And I was determined to build it for myself.
Few people my age could boast a career or a salary like mine in their early twenties. Fewer still ever wondered what might drive a teenager to stay awake through countless nights, devouring new knowledge and honing skills—anything to escape the endless "Groundhog Day" of shouting and chaos under the same roof. Anything to earn enough to finally get out.
I never regretted leaving my hometown and coming here, to Moscow, in search of a better life. The grueling university program, the exams, the overcrowded dorms, the late shifts at a café nearby—all of it felt bearable as long as one thought kept ringing in my mind like a bell: If I don't push through this now, I'll have to go back.
And that was something I could never allow.
By the end of my fourth year, I had picked up three programming languages in my spare time and started going to interviews. While my classmates were out having fun—meeting people, falling in love, taking girls on dates—I spent nights in front of my monitor, studying programming manuals, hoping it would all pay off someday.
I didn't have much of a portfolio back then, nor a degree yet, but I had grown sick of wiping tables for perfume-drenched customers with sour faces—people who barely saw the waiter in front of them as a person at all.
There are only two ways out of a nightmare: accept it, or finally try to wake up.
I decided that giving up without even trying to change anything would be the most foolish thing I could do. So I started sending my résumé anywhere remotely related to my field—any opening, any chance, just to get an interview. But invitations came rarely. Maybe it was my age. Maybe my work history in the service industry. Maybe the unfinished degree. Or maybe all of it at once.
It's a pity companies don't tell you why they turn you down before you even get to the first interview. Who knows—maybe then you could fix the right line in your résumé, tweak your story, and take another shot.
But fate doesn't like things easy. She favors the clever and the resourceful—those who can read between the lines, solve the puzzle, adapt without a map, just to keep winning in the game called Life.
I wasn't clever, nor particularly insightful—just stubborn and desperate. Out of twelve job applications I sent, only three companies replied. The first two were polite rejections, the kind of automated responses that pretended to care but didn't hide the cold finality between the lines. Thank you for your interest, best of luck in your future endeavors.
Looking back, I think I needed those disappointments. Without them, I wouldn't have appreciated the third letter when it came.