Therapy was supposed to be quiet. That was the lie everyone told themselves. The room itself was calm enough—soft gray walls, a couch that swallowed you if you let it, a faint citrus-clean smell that tried very hard to be comforting. The lights were warm, deliberately non-threatening. A box of tissues sat on the table like a warning.
Tina hated it already. She sat cross-legged on the couch, shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, hands fidgeting with the zipper of Andrew's hoodie because she'd stolen it again. Her silver hair was half-tied, half-chaos, strands sticking out in every direction like they couldn't agree on being serious today.
