The counselor's office is just like Kyle expects it to be. The waiting room looks like any other waiting room around the school: same carpet, same chairs, same generic paintings on the walls. He sits, and he fidgets, doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. He does, however, catch a few glances. Not all of them look bad. Tired. Distant, maybe. But not bad.

He wonders how bad he looks. He knows he looks nervous. He can feel it. His stomach rumbles because while he managed to eat a banana and a small thing of yogurt this morning, it doesn't really make up for all the meals skipped lately. He can practically feel the bags under his eyes. He didn't exactly look great in the mirror this morning, but at least he forced himself to shower and put on clean clothes. His hair, however, is a fucking disaster that he hadn't bothered to tame.

When his name is called, he stands and greets a woman. She looks somewhere in her thirties, smooth copper hair curling around her shoulders, dressed nice but casual. She smiles at him warmly, and he tries to return it as she leads him back through the hallways to her office.

It's a nice office, he supposes. It's small. She has a chair that looks comfortable. A desk nearby. Some bookshelves made of dark wood that give it a homey feel. There are paintings on the wall as well as her certificates and diplomas. The curtains framing the window are deep and rich in color. She's obviously taken time to turn her cinderblock cubicle of a room into something more comfortable.

As soon as the door is closed, he feels his panic rising. It's a tight knot forming in his gut, nauseating tendrils coiling and curling upward through his chest, squeezing his lungs.

She takes her seat, and he slowly lowers himself to the couch opposite her. It's comfortable, smooth and worn leather creaking beneath him as he shifts and adjusts. His eyes dart everywhere, avoiding eye contact with her as she shuffles through some papers.

He shouldn't be here. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't have any deep seeded issues to work out. He doesn't have any traumas, right? He's not like the other kids who come in for counseling. He's fine.

She introduces herself during his haze of trying to get a grip on his self-control. He knows he must respond to it and introduces himself, because his lips are moving, and his voice is on autopilot, but his mind is elsewhere, giving himself a stern pep talk to just get this over with.

Then she's settling back in her chair, lounging comfortably. Her clipboard rests on her lap, and her elbows rest on the arms of her chair, fingers meeting and steeping together as she smiles at Kyle. It's a warm smile, disarming and welcoming and gentle, but he knows that it's carefully crafted to be that way, and that puts him on edge.

"Right, well, Kyle, is there any particular reason you're here?"

He shrugs, shifting his weight, eyes on the coffee table between them. "Just... to talk... I guess." Yet despite that, he can't figure out what to say. The thoughts and words jumble on their way to his mouth, building up and clogging his lungs. He doesn't know where to start. Oh god, what is he doing here?

She must sense his rising panic because she says, "Hey, it's no pressure. You don't need to open up right away. A lot of people come in here just to talk. How about we start with the basic starter questions, so I can get a general idea of everything. Does that sound good?"

He nods, biting his bottom lip. Answer questions. He can do that. That doesn't require a lot of thought.

He eases back into the couch, letting it envelop him in an illusion of safety as she begins.

They're easy questions at first. Simple questions about himself. How's college life so far? Does he get his school work done? Does he go to classes? How does he feel about them? Is he too stressed about grades? What's his relationship with his family like? Does he talk to them often? Does he socialize much on campus? What does he do in his free time? Is he eating properly?

She pokes and prods at him, trying to get a good picture of who he is and what his problems might be without asking directly. She beats around the bush, poking from the side until she can get a full outline of him. He answers on auto-pilot, truthful if not a little ashamed whenever he gets this look that tells him that whatever his answer was, it’s not good. He knows that. He knows it's not good. That's why he's here.

Then, when it becomes clear that he's not in a good place, she digs deeper. He tells her about the past few weeks. He tells her how he's been isolating himself, snapping at his roommate. He tells her how he barely showers and forgets to eat. He tells her how it's hard to eat, like his body refuses to accept food. He tells her how he's thrown himself into his work, and he's getting things done, but it doesn't feel good. He tells her how he has to practically work himself into a coma every night to avoid the nightmares.

That's when she starts asking the generic but more pointed questions.

"Have you been abusing a substance?"

"No." He thinks he’s too much of a coward to do that.

"Have you thought about hurting yourself?"

"No."

"What's your support network like?"

He squirms in his seat, fingers picking at the skin around his nail beds. He stares at them to keep from making eye contact. "You know..." He mumbles. "Classmates and stuff."

"Classmates?" He doesn't look up, but he can hear the surprise. He bites at his bottom lip, feeling the hot rush of shame to his cheeks. "Not friends?"

He shrugs, slouching further into the couch, wishing for all the world that it might swallow him up. "I.. don't have a lot of friends. I... I had one, but..." Another shrug and the sharp twist of his heart as his stomach knots and drops. "It... didn't work out."

She moves then, and he glances up through his lashes. She leans forward, setting her clipboard on the table and off to the side without looking at it. She rests her elbows on her knees, interwoven fingers held up in front of her face as she leans forward. She pins Kyle with a curious stare, eyes narrowed slightly as she looks him over.

It's a forced sense of intimacy and of privacy. He feels like she's picking him apart with her eyes. He squirms under the scrutiny.

But when she speaks, it's not demanding nor is it confrontational. It's soft and inviting. She doesn't so much pull him out of his shell as peel it back and step aside, waiting and offering for him to step out on his own. He knows this is just part of her job, a presence that she's crafted specifically to feel like this. But it's so natural that maybe she was like this all along and just found a job that fit her.

Either way, it eases the tense knot in his gut and makes him want to step out of his shell. From behind his walls. That's why he's here, right? And she makes him want to talk. Or maybe he's been dying to talk anyway. To get it off his chest.

He's such a mess.

"Why are you here, Kyle?"

He shifts his weight, eyes darting around the room. He opens his mouth, but no words come, and he snaps it shut again.

"I know that you know why you're here," she says gently, a soft smile on her lips. It doesn't look like pity, but instead like sympathy and understanding. "It's clear to me that you don't think you need help, and you're scared to want it, but you came here for a reason. You came here to talk about something that you can't talk to anyone else about, and I'm here to listen. All you have to do is talk."

His eyes flicker to her, sidelong and wary. He glances at the door, licking his lips as he finds his voice, shaky and nervous. "You, uh... You can't say anything to anyone, right? What I say is private?"

She nods. "Unless you're a danger to yourself or others, nothing you say leaves this room."

He nods. "Okay." He licks his lips again, mouth feeling incredibly dry. Closing his eyes, he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat and tries to breath deep into his tight lungs. As he exhales, he lets it out in a rush. "I've been seeing this guy. Well— no, I was seeing this guy— Sort of? We weren't really dating, but— we kind of were? It doesn't matter. We're not seeing each other anymore."

He opens his eyes, expression tight and pinched as he winces at his own words. He glances at his counselor, expecting the worst. He expects surprise, maybe confusion, and definitely thinly concealed disgust. What he doesn’t expect is for her to be completely nonplussed. Nothing about her expression changes, and there's no tension to assume that she's merely hiding it. She just looks unsurprised and unaffected by the admission.

"So... you're gay? Or at least bisexual?" It's not said in any of the ways Kyle expected it to be. It's casual and offhanded, like she's trying to figure out where to put this new piece of his puzzle.

Still, he tenses. His blood runs cold and his heart hammers painfully in his chest. He stares down at his lap, where his hands are clenched tight, knuckles white. He grits his teeth and lets out a long, hissing sigh, forcing himself to nod once, sharply. "Yeah. I guess."

"And you and this boy broke up?"

Another twist of pain. Another sharp nod. "Yeah."

"And you're having a hard time getting over it?" He shrugs, and she continues. "That's understandable. We all break up, but we heal with time, and we learn how to move on. If this boy can't see you for who you are, then that's fine. You’ll find someone who can."

Kyle shakes his head, dread and shame twisting hot in his chest. "I, uh... I was the one who broke up with him."

"Ahh," She hums. It's noncommittal and blank, without any expression to tell him what that means.

He finds himself scrambling to explain himself, eyes narrowed on his lap as he picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I wasn't ready, you know? I've— I've never been in a relationship, let alone... I'm not out? People don't know that I'm— yeah, and I wasn't ready for that, I don't think."

"Well... what would make you ready?"

Kyle purses his lips tight, brows furrowing. He pulls his feet up onto the edge of the couch, knees bent as he slouches, as if he might hide behind them. He picks at the sleeves of his hoodie. He remains silent because he doesn't know. He digs around in his head and turns the question over, but he just doesn't know. And with every passing second, his scowl grows deeper from his frustration.

She lets him have time to process and to think, but when he doesn't respond, she eventually speaks again. It's kind and gentle, soft in a way that comes from experience and understanding rather than a textbook. "Listen, Kyle... No one is ever truly ready for life. No one is ready to experience loss, or to be vulnerable with someone, or to fall in love, or to have children, or to go to college, or to be out in the adult world and survive. Being ready? It's an illusion. Few of us are ever ready for what life throws at us. Not completely. No one is ever a hundred percent confident. We just get better at taking chances and learning along the way."

She sits back a little, slouching in her chair and hanging her arms over the arms of the chair. He watches as she looks around her office, almost wistful as she gestures to it vaguely. "I wasn't ready to take this job. I kind of just... fell into it. I wasn't sure it was the right move, but I took it anyway. And I'm so glad that I did." She looks at him again, head tilted and a smile in her eyes. "If you want until you're completely ready to do anything, you'll never truly live."

They're silent for a moment. She lets him absorb her words, and she doesn't push him to speak. Nor does she bombard him with more. She just sits and waits and lets him have a moment to himself. It's an easy silence, and her words slowly sink into Kyle's head. They drift down, settling into his bones. He feels the knot in his chest loosening, even as his stomach continues to twist.

"My..." His voice cracks, and he has to stop to clear his throat, licking his lips. He closes his eyes, taking solace in the darkness. "My brother died a couple years ago," he whispers, the breath of truth feeling numb on his lips. "He was my best friend, my only friend, and now he's gone. How am I supposed to move on from that?"

He doesn't see her face, but her voice takes on another gentle level of understanding. "The pain of that will always be there. I don't think loss is something we can ever forget. Not completely. But it does get easier. Everything is loud right now. The wound is fresh. But in time, the wound will scab and heal. It may scar, but it will heal. And you'll be surrounded by so many good things, so many new things and new people."

He opens his eyes, feeling them burn as he stares at her.

"If you let the good things happen, your loss will fade into the background emotional noise of your life. And that's okay. Our loved ones wouldn't want us to grieve forever. They'd want us to be happy and live our lives to the fullest. If your brother loved you as much as I think he did, he wouldn't want you to swear off happiness." There's a pause, and Kyle takes in a deep, shuddering breath. The next question is a gentle prod. It's a question, but it doesn't feel like one. "Is that why you broke up with this guy?"

He nods, a hiccup squeezing his chest. Kyle squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the stinging bite of tears forming as he desperately wills them away. He feels his lip quiver, and he bites it in an attempt to stop it. When he speaks, however, he can't stop the waver in his voice. "I forgot the anniversary of my brother's death. I got distracted— He distracted me. I let our— whatever we were— I let it distract me."

"Kyle," she says, gentle and patient. She waits for him to open his eyes. She waits until he looks at her, vision blurry with tears he doesn't want to shed. She smiles, calm and patient and so understanding. It reminds him of his brother. "You weren't distracted. You were healing."

His breath hitches, another hiccup seizes his chest, and gives in to his tears.