There was a bottle of Evian next to his mug, along with a small plate that had a different kind of muffin on it every time—and it was always untouched. The time it took for me to have my coffee was usually long enough for the guy to remove chunks from the top of his muffin of the day and nibble on them without taking his eyes away from his computer screen. There were only two occasions when he’d look up: whenever the door opened up and the tiny silver bell attached to it sounded off, or when his phone started vibrating on the pink marble tabletop next to his unopened copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Those were the only times I got to properly see his face. He had shaggy, short brown hair, a thin nose, and full lips, and his eyebrows were almost white, they were so light. He also had a cleft chin and a tendency of moving his lips along with whatever song he was listening to—or as he read something on his computer.

*

So there I was, sitting across from Dr. Foster in the living room of her brownstone. It was extremely clean, tastefully decorated, and rather inviting. During our sessions, she had this habit. She would close the double doors that led to the living room and put some relaxing background music on—never too loud so as to become a distraction but just enough to provide a warm and comfortable environment designed to make someone feel safe.

“How are things at home?” Dr. Foster asked with her head down while looking at me above the frame of her red glasses.

“Fine,” I said, not too keen on being there in the first place, let alone going over just how bad I felt.

Dr. Foster was good though. She remained quiet, staring back at me until I finally caved.

“Everything’s fine,” I assured her. “We all pretend. We’re used to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents keep pretending not to be fighting. My brother pretends he’s not mad at me, and I pretend not to notice how the conversation always seems to stop whenever I enter a room, or how they keep staring at me when they think I’m not looking.”

“And you think that’s fine?” she asked, scribbling something on her pad.

“I don’t mind,” I truthfully said. “No one really wants to talk about what happened, and that works for me. So, yeah, it’s fine.”

She gave me one of those undefined smiles she was so good at. They weren’t friendly, not exactly; they weren’t hostile either. “Are you excited about the new school?”

“What do you mean?”

I knew what she meant, of course. It was just such a shit question.

“You’re starting a new school in the middle of your senior year. Are you having any anxiety or apprehension because of it?”