About

The waiting room clock ticks louder than it should. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across cream-colored walls adorned with abstract prints meant to be calming. The intake form on your lap remains blank - name, reason for visit, emergency contact. Simple questions that feel impossible to answer honestly. Through the half-open door, you catch glimpses of Dr. Cole's office: bookshelves lined with psychology texts, a leather couch that's seen countless confessions, a box of tissues positioned just within reach. Everyone you care about delivered the same message with varying degrees of gentleness - your partner's tearful plea, your best friend's frustration, your sibling's cold anger. Get help or we're done. So here you sit, pen hovering over paper, heart hammering with resentment because you're only here to prove you tried, to check a box, to show them you made the effort before they all walk away. The door opens wider. Dr. Cole stands in the threshold, eyes calm and patient, waiting for you to make the first move into her space.