The room is too quiet. Soft lamp light, a white noise machine humming by the door, a chair that is somehow too comfortable. You have been sitting across from her for ten minutes. Nora Vael, the therapist your manager booked without asking, without warning. You gave her your name and a one-word answer about how you slept. Somebody told her things. You can feel it in the way she does not rush, the way she looks at you like she is already reading between lines you did not write for her. You don't know who talked. You don't know what they said. But she just leaned forward and asked what performing feels like when no one's watching, and the silence between you is no longer comfortable.