Cindy lowered herself to the overstuffed chair, trying not to flinch when the door closed with a soft click. Did Dr. McCormack notice? Probably. She seemed to notice everything. But she didn't say anything as she made her way to the matching chair and took a seat.

Cindy glanced around, studying the office in silence. This wasn't her first time here, not even close. But this was something she did every visit. It had become a habit almost, a soothing ritual that calmed her before their session started.

The room didn't look like an office, not with its overstuffed seating arranged for casual conversation. The chairs were upholstered in soft material, stripes of cheery blue and yellow and white. The coffee table and end tables were made of wood, painted in white, designed to make them look old and comfortable. Vintage. Beachy, even. That last impression was enhanced by the pale blue walls topped with an ocean motif border. Simply-framed seascape prints were scattered throughout, placed in clusters on the wall that seemed random but had been well thought-out before being hung. There was even a tall glass bowl filled with sand and seashells and the faint sound of waves gently lapping against some unseen shore coming from a hidden stereo.

Cindy knew this wasn't the only room Dr. McCormack used. There were two others, each with a vastly different theme. But this was the one Cindy preferred. Not because of the soothing ocean motif, even if Dr. McCormack said that most of her patients preferred the calming effect of the water. No, that wasn't it at all. At least, not entirely.

Cindy preferred this one because it reminded her of that week in St. Thomas. Because it brought back memories of the time she had spent with Ethan.

Before her world crashed around her and everything had changed.

"Your hair looks nice. The cut is very flattering."

Cindy raised her hand, ran it through the soft strands then twirled her finger in the ends. She took a deep breath and let her hand fall into her lap before looking over at Dr. McCormack. She didn't look like a psychotherapist, not dressed as she was in loose linen pants and a casual green blouse that went well with her coloring. Cindy knew she was over fifty but only because she had offered the information. Everything about her was trim and neat, from the swaying bob of her silvery blonde hair to her relaxed and open smile. She exuded a simple charm that made it easy to trust, easy to confide in.

Cindy smiled, just a quick one, and muttered her thanks. She heard the hidden meaning beneath the compliment, knew that Dr. McCormack was commenting on much more than just her new hairstyle.

It was the fact that Cindy had a new hairstyle, the fact that she had gone out and had it done that the doctor was commenting on.

Cindy smiled again and glanced down at her hands, at the fresh manicure and brightly-colored polish covering her nails. "I went with Maggie."

Because her friend had insisted. Gently, maybe, but she'd still insisted. And Cindy had survived.

"Sometimes having friends help. If you let them."

"Sometimes. I guess."

Dr. McCormack shifted in the chair, crossing her lean legs and settling against the stuffed back. "So how is everything else going? You look better. Not quite so tired or tense."

Cindy frowned, still gazing at her hands as she searched for the right words. She was hesitant, almost afraid to say them out loud. Afraid she'd be laughed at. Afraid she'd be proven wrong.

She finally took a deep breath and looked over, wondering if she could see the small glimmer of hope hiding in Cindy's eyes. "I think…better."

"You think?"

"I guess. I mean…yeah. Better. Maybe."

"You don't sound too certain of that."

Cindy laughed, the sound whisper-soft in the room. "I'm not certain of anything anymore. There are days I wake up and feel normal, like my old self. Then I sit up and everything comes crashing back down and I wonder if I only imagined feeling better. Or if it's everything else I'm imagining. What's real? What's not? And how can I trust myself if I can't even figure that much out?"

"Do you think you're afraid to trust yourself? Afraid to believe you might be getting better?"

"Yeah." Cindy cringed at the speed with which she was able to answer that one. It was probably the only thing she was certain of, the only thing she didn't doubt. Her own fear. What did that say about her?

She looked over at the doctor again, trying to see even a small hint of what she might be thinking. But the other woman's thoughts were carefully hidden behind a mask of calm encouragement. Cindy sagged against the back of the chair and chewed on her lower lip, wanting to ask a hundred different questions but not sure how to start.

And not sure she wanted to hear the answers.

She sighed and asked the question she wanted the answer to the most—the answer she was most afraid of hearing. "Am I getting better? At all?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it would probably be more reassuring to hear it from you."

A small smile teased the woman's mouth, lighting the pale eyes watching her. "Three months ago, you would have never even said something like that. What does that tell you?"

Relief, clear and uplifting, moved through her. But she pushed it away, afraid to trust it, afraid to believe in it. She took another deep breath and let her gaze wander around the room until it landed on one picture in particular: her favorite.

It showed deep blue water, smooth and tranquil, flush against an expanse of fine white sand. A few palm trees graced the foreground, slightly blurred against the backdrop of mountainous terrain along the horizon. Cindy didn't know where the picture had been taken—there were a hundred different locations the photographer could have chosen. But it reminded her so much of the small private beach at the resort on St. Thomas. She'd only been there a week but every time she needed to focus on a happy memory, that was what she thought about. It didn't make sense, not when the darkness had been lurking at the edges of her world even then.

But even the darkness couldn't detract from the happiness she felt thinking about that week. Warm sun beating down on her. Sand, both hot and cold, against the soles of her feet. Calm breezes caressing her skin, washing away the heat of the day.

She closed her eyes, breathed in, smelling the scents of coconut in the sunscreen she and Ethan had used. Smelling the scents of fresh fruit in the tropical drinks they shared: pineapple and lime and berry.

Smelling the warmth of Ethan's skin as he held her. Remembering his touch. His taste. His laughter and his teasing.

She took another deep breath and forced her eyes open then blinked against the burning moisture. One week. Nothing more than one simple week…and yet it meant the world to her, more than she could ever explain or even understand.

"You always seem to focus on that picture. Is there a reason why?"

Cindy shrugged without looking at the doctor. "I just…it reminds me of something."

"Like what?"

Should Cindy tell her? The question was so silly. Why shouldn't she, when she had told her everything else?

No, not everything. She hadn't mentioned Ethan at all. Why was that, she wondered?

"Maggie's wedding. She got married in St. Thomas."

"Sounds like fun. Happy memories, I take it?"

Cindy smiled this time, a real one despite the sadness she felt. "Yes. I stayed for a week after the wedding. I wasn't going to but Ethan…" Her voice trailed off as she took in a breath of air. "Ethan talked me into staying. We—it was fun."

"Ethan? I don't think I've heard you mention him before. Who is he?"

"He's just a…friend."

"You don't sound too sure of that."

Cindy glanced over at the doctor, shrugged and went back to studying the picture. "We're friends. I thought that maybe…well, things change, I guess."

"Do you still talk to him?"

"Almost every day. He's—he's been great. Very supportive."

"You don't sound very excited about that."

Cindy shrugged again. "I am. It's just—I don't like feeling…I don't know. I think he's spending too much time worrying about me and not enough time focusing on his game. I don't want to be a distraction for him."

"That almost sounds like he's more than a friend."

"No." Cindy glanced over, noticed that Dr. McCormack was leaning forward now, a glint of interest in her eyes. She shook her head and looked away. "I thought maybe, after St. Thomas but…then this all happened and…we're just friends."

"Was this something he decided? Or was this your choice?"

"Me!" Cindy couldn't keep the horror from her voice. "Just me. Ethan's not like that. He wouldn't just—it doesn't matter. We can't be anything more than friends. It's not fair to him. He deserves someone…someone better."

Dr. McCormack studied her for a few minutes. Cindy stiffened, already anticipating more questions about Ethan. Questions on how she felt, or why she thought the way she did. But she changed the subject—and Cindy almost wished she had asked about Ethan instead.

"Let's talk about your anxiety. Tell me about your improvements. I know you've gone out a few times. Any more issues with crowds?"

"I still don't like them. I get…I feel like I'm being boxed in. Too many people, too close. I can't breathe, I get hot—" Cindy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn't in a crowd now, she was in an office. With plenty of space. Nobody around her. There was no reason for her heart to pound in her chest or for her palms to grow sweaty.

Several more deep breaths then she opened her eyes. "Big crowds, no. Not yet."

"But smaller ones are better?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Mostly. I mean, I don't feel so closed in, so claustrophobic."

"And physical contact. Has that improved?"

"Do you mean do I take off screaming or cower in fear?"

Dr. McCormack chuckled, the sound startling Cindy. "I think I see some of the old you pushing through."

Cindy frowned, not understanding what she meant at first. Then her mouth dropped open in surprise at the answer she had given: a little upbeat, maybe even a little snarky. When was the last time she had spoken like that?

Her relief was short-lived, though. It was only one comment—one during a grueling five months, a time period where too many moments were permanently lost to the darkness that had become part of her world. The brief words didn't matter, not really.

If the doctor noticed the sudden change, the doubt and disappearing relief—and Cindy was certain she did—she didn't say anything. At least, not about that. Her gaze focused on Cindy, making her wonder what she saw.

Making her wonder if she really wanted to know what she thought.

"So the anxiety has decreased?"

"A little. Maybe. I—" Cindy swallowed and looked away. "I maybe had a small breakdown two weeks ago. When I went to that small party I told you about. I just…I kind of freaked out and broke down and started crying and—well, Ethan held me during it and I didn't freak out. Does that mean I'm getting better? Probably not."

Cindy glanced over, waiting for the doctor to say anything. She simply nodded, silently encouraging Cindy to continue. But continue with what? She didn't know what else to say, didn't know what the woman wanted.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax. Forcing herself to open up. "I just—I don't know what to believe. And every time I think I'm improving, every time I think the depression is going away, all this doubt comes creeping in. And I think…I think part of me is almost afraid of getting better, you know? Because what if I get better and it happens again? What if I'm moving along, thinking everything is fine, then all of a sudden the depression slams into me? I don't think—I don't want that to happen again, I don't want to go back there. And I think part of me thinks it might be better to just stay where I am now so that doesn't happen."

Cindy paused, actually feeling the silence in the room. Feeling Dr. McCormack's patience and silent encouragement. So she kept going, letting everything out. Hopes. Fears—especially her fears. Fears of not trusting herself, fears of not getting better, fears of getting better than losing everything once more. Fears of being broken for the rest of her life. Fears of being like her father. Talking, more talking. Talking nonstop until her voice turned hoarse and her throat dried out.

She finally stopped, looked up to see Dr. McCormack holding a bottle of water out to her. Cindy accepted it, unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. Her hands shook but she felt…better. Cleansed, almost.

Or was it just her imagination again?

"I think we're making definite progress. Your fears are normal, Cindy, along with the doubt you're feeling. And you're not bi-polar, we've already established that. You're not like your father." She paused, her head tilted to the side as she studied Cindy. "I think I want to try something different this week with your journaling exercises. And, if you're willing to try, I have something else I want you to do."

Cindy nodded, wondering if she should give in to the spurt of hope she felt—or if she should push it away like she usually did. Dr. McCormack watched her for a few long seconds then offered her another gentle smile. Encouraging, reassuring.

Some of the encouragement dimmed as Cindy left the office. The journaling assignment should be easy enough. At least, she thought it would be. But the other one?

Cindy hesitated in the hallway as a chill ran over her. Excitement…or fear? Anxiety…or anticipation?

She didn't know. And she couldn't push away the doubt that followed her out the door.