“You see, I didn’t know…” I was trying so hard to think straight.

“Know what, babe?”

“Did I tell you when I first saw you?”

“In class?”

I shook my head. “That little coffee shop on Charles Street.”

“You saw me there?”

“I did,” I said, smiling. “Almost every day, for weeks.”

“When was this?”

“Before classes started,” I said, almost transported back to the first time I’d seen him there. “You always had a book with you, and you would always order a different muffin. It took me so long to understand…” I stopped as I continued to vividly remember it.

“Tom?”

“I wasn’t feeling that great, back then,” I confessed. “That’s why it took me so long to get it.”

“Get what?”

“That everything I saw you do was so…lovely. It’s so cute how you only sort of destroy your food instead of properly eating it.”

“I never saw you there,” he said, trying to think back. “I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered you.”

“Well, I saw you. I started going in earlier just so I’d be able to see you walk in.”

He smiled, and then he tilted his head to the side. “Tom, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t—I never thought I’d feel anything again, you know? But I did. With you. You know that, right?”

“Okay, you really need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Why did you go to that coffee shop?”

“That’s where I go, whenever my mom—”

“—is seeing a patient?”

“Yeah, how did you…”

“Alicia Foster, PhD,” I interrupted him again. “She’s your mom, isn’t she?” I could barely look him in the eye. He looked so confused.

“Y-yeah. How—”

“She’s my therapist, Ethan.”

“What!” he said, his eyes widening.

I started shaking my head repeatedly, without really saying anything. He was clearly trying to make sense of it. Had it been the other way around, he would’ve remained silent as I took my time, patiently waiting until I was ready to speak. But I couldn’t do that. I felt as though I had no time left, as if whatever needed to be said had to be done at once—or not at all.

“We can’t do this,” I told him.

“What?” he asked, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“I came to tell you we can’t—”

“Look, babe,” he said fondly, but it felt like daggers on my skin. “You need to explain it better. I—I don’t understand. How is my mom your therapist?”

“I dunno. I don’t— I just know that she is.”

“Well…shit,” he said, then after a beat, asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means we can’t see each other anymore.”

“But we—we don’t really discuss your sessions. It’s not like I influence you or go back home and tell her stuff. I barely talk to my mom.”