"You're not broken, Leo," she said. "You're just not done cracking."
The words hung in the air of the small, quiet office. Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days of living in the dust cloud of his own making, and this woman, Dr. Aris Thorne, had summed it up in ten words.
He hated that she was right.
Breaking was an event. Cracking was a process. And for Leo, the process was endless.
He sat on the edge of a couch upholstered in a fabric he could only describe as aggressively neutral. The room was designed to soothe. Beige walls. Abstract, inoffensive art. Muted grey carpet. But to Leo, it felt like a cage.
Dr. Aris Thorne sat opposite him, notepad in lap, though she hadn't written a single word. Her expression was calm, analytical, engaged.
"Cracking sounds a lot like breaking from where I'm sitting," he muttered.
"Breaking is final," she said. "Cracks are how things change. It's how the light gets in. It's also how things fall apart. The direction it goes is up to you."
He almost scoffed. "The government isn't paying you for poetry."
"No," she said. "They're paying me because their most powerful asset looks like he's about to shatter every time a car backfires. They're paying me because a bus floated last week."
Leo flinched. The word floated sounded so benign for something so terrifying.
He shifted uncomfortably. "My work… has unique stressors."
"I've read the file," she said. "What wasn't redacted, anyway. 'Hazardous material management,' 'extra-planetary risk mitigation,' 'volatile event suppression.' Bureaucratic poetry. But it all means the same thing."
Leo said nothing.
"They're afraid of you," she said. "And you, Leo, are afraid of yourself. That's the real reason you're here, isn't it?"
The fluorescent lights flickered violently. A pen on her table began to rattle.
Leo's breath caught. He stared at the pen, willing it to stop.
Aris didn't move. Didn't gasp. Didn't flinch. Just watched.
"My control is tied to my emotional state," he said, his voice low. "It's better if I'm… contained."
"No one lives in a container, Leo. Not really. We just convince ourselves we do," she said. "You call it a container. I call it a crater. You've been living in the middle of it for ten years, walking the same circle, terrified of climbing out because you're afraid you'll cause an avalanche."
The crater. Ground Zero. Sarah. The memory rose like dust from a wound that had never stopped bleeding.
"I protect people by staying away from them," he muttered.
"Do you?" she asked softly. "Or do you protect yourself from having to feel what you felt that day?"
He stood up abruptly. "This was a mistake. I can't do this."
"Then our session is over for today."
He was already at the door when her voice stopped him.
"Before we meet next week, I have an assignment."
He paused, hand on the knob.
"I'm not doing your homework."
"It's not for me," she said. "Go to a cafe. Any cafe. Buy a drink. Sit at a table surrounded by people. Five minutes. That's it."
He turned, disbelief written across his face. She wanted him in a room full of people?
"I won't do it," he said. "It's not safe."
"I know," she said quietly. "That's the entire point."
He fled, the weight of five minutes hanging heavier than any asteroid.