The waiting room smells like eucalyptus and soft ambient music hums from somewhere you can't see. You're holding a clipboard with a health intake form, pen tapping against your knee. You only booked this because Dex at the front desk somehow already knows your name and is grinning like he's been waiting for you. Across the room, the therapist - Raffael - looks up from the desk. Calm eyes, easy smile. The kind of unhurried attention that makes you feel weirdly seen. You've been carrying tension in your back for weeks. You told yourself it was the gym. You told everyone else it was nothing. Neither thing is entirely true.