I go the same way as I always do on a Friday afternoon, but today my steps feel leaden, and I know deep down I’m going to turn around before I even get halfway up Bogstadveien, which is busy with schoolkids and those taking an early weekend milling in and out of the shops. Still, I proceed to Rosenborggata, where I turn right. I walk all the way up to the white, immaculately kept turn-of-the-century apartment building and slide my finger down the familiar row of buzzers until it settles on the right one. It wouldn’t be so bad to go up. I would be met with nothing but kindness. But it’s the kindness I can’t bear. Something occurs to me, and I check my phone. No new messages. I open Google maps and enter Leah’s address, found and memorized from my client list before I left the office. It’s just seven minutes’ walk away, across Theresesgate and toward Adamstuen. I glance up at the building in front of me one more time. Not today, I say to myself, refusing thoughts of how in this moment the tea will be brewing, the home-made cakes will be meticulously laid out on a tray; they’ll be waiting for the buzzer to sound. I walk away.

I head back down Bogstadveien and past my office, and after less than ten minutes, I find myself standing in front of Leah Iverson’s apartment building on Benneches Gate. Leah lives in a beautiful yellow-and-white art nouveau apartment building, and I stand for a moment on the pavement looking up at the windows, trying to guess which ones are hers. She’s never really spoken to me about her apartment – whenever she speaks about home, she speaks of the apartment where she grew up with her mother, or more recently, her beloved country cabin. She always lights up when she speaks of the peace she feels there, far away from other people and the stresses of city life. I look at the names on the doorbells and find her name at the top. L.K. Iverson it reads, and I rest my finger on it for a moment. Without thinking, I press the buzzer down for a long moment and imagine it ringing shrilly in Leah’s apartment. Will she be angry with me for coming here? Experience tells me she’s more likely to be moved; clients tend to crave feeling important and cared for by the therapist.