There were million little reasons to not love him,
And million little things that I despised now.
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Her:
Unwanted emotions,
I didn't want any of it, any of them.
From the outside, she seems adorned with all that glitters-wealth, celebrity, and...
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"You say, you always feel guilt gnawing at you," I squirmed on the sofa, feeling increasingly uneasy, while she pressed on, "have you considered why don't you try to reflect upon it?"
I let out a weary sighed, my gaze drifting out of the window looking at the calm Arabian sea and the majestic Worli Sea Link bridge. It was the first of January, my birthday and instead of indulging in celebrations, I found myself confined to my therapy session. Listening to my therapist repeat the bullshit I have uttered countless times before.
However, it's not as if I desire to celebrate this dreadful day. It used to be a day when I felt like a princess, but now it feels like I've transformed into a villain—a cold and numb queen.
I feel guilty because I can't reflect. Can't she get this in her fucking head?
I slipped my feet into a pair of elegant black pumps with red soles, Christian Louboutin's signature touch, as I rose from the couch, clutching my black handbag. "I'll see you in our next session, or perhaps not," I remarked, arching my eyebrows. She bit her lip in response, nodding silently.
With each step, my heels echoed against the polished marble floor as I approached the door, swiftly turning the handle. However, before stepping outside, I paused and faced my therapist once more. "I feel guilt because I struggle to reflect," I admitted, gratitude tinged in my voice. "Thank you for your efforts." Without sparing a glance at the panicked receptionist, I walked out and left the room behind me.
Stepping into the elevator, I retrieved my AirPods from my bag and selected a random song from my playlist. The melodic tunes of Interpol's "Untitled" filled my ears, and a silent sigh escaped me. Gradually, my heart began to ease, and the incessant whirlwind of my overthinking mind found solace in music, momentarily providing a welcome distraction.
The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ping, and I stepped out, heading towards my sleek Satin Jet Black Aston Martin DB11 coupe. Sliding into the luxurious interior, I removed my AirPods, the song seamlessly transitioned into the car's sound system as I ignited the engine. The melodies of Untitled continued to fill the space, enveloping me in a cocoon of familiar sounds.
Anticipating my mother's call, I braced myself, fully aware that my therapist, now ex-therapist, who coincidentally is my mother's friend, would reach out to her and express her grievances about my abrupt departure and my decision to cease further visits.
In the coming week, I would find myself meeting yet another therapist, marking the eleventh one I've encountered in the span of just four months. The revolving door of therapists had become a disheartening routine.
With a strong desire to retreat to the comfort of my own space, I directed my car towards my apartment building. All I wanted was to arrive home, change into something cozy, and indulge in leisurely walks along the renowned Juhu Beach, which conveniently connected to my apartment building. Living in such proximity to the beach allowed me the freedom to stroll along its shores whenever I desired, providing a much-needed solace amidst the chaos of my thoughts.
