The Fault In Our Stars Sequel

Chapter Nine

Needless to say, the next few days are rough.

Grudgingly I agree to seeing the counselor for at least a month, although I know with every bone in my body that it will do nothing to improve my state of mind. There is nothing to be said. Augustus is dead. My boyfriend is dead.

My mom is convinced that I am in denial, that I don't want to feel better, that I am drowning myself in my own misery.

"Mom, why would I choose to be sad all the time? Trust me, if I couldn't care, I wouldn't."

Unfortunately, that wasn't convincing enough.

So here I sit, An Imperial Affliction in my lap, in Mr. Berkfield's office, fingering the pages of the worn book absently as I pretend that I am anywhere but here.

The place is pretty much abandoned, the only sound the gurgle of the fish tank across the room, the fish swimming against the glass. I wonder how it must feel to see the same things everyday, be trapped in such a confined area, waiting for someone to nurture you, to give you attention.

I realize that I am a lot more like the fish in that tank than I had previously realized. Always going through the motions, under constant scrutiny, trapped inside of myself and my life.

Disturbed by the thought, I turn my head and swallow hard, looking at the book in my lap, reading synopsis as if I don't have it memorized, the words permanently engraved into my memory.

The wide, wooden door swings open, revealing a petite lady with rectangular glasses, her lips shimmering with lip gloss. "Hazel Lancaster?" her small voice calls out, her plain eyes searching the room, although there is no one in here but me. Her eyes rest on me as I bring myself to my feet, pulling Phillip along behind me.

"Come on in, Hazel." the woman smiles warmly at me.

"As if I have a choice." I grumble, too low for her to hear.

I walk slightly behind her as she leads me down a hallway that slightly resembles a dentist office of my childhood. I can't decipher the smell--it kind of smells like coffee and microwave popcorn.

The lady whose nametag reads Taylor stops in front of an open door. "Mr. Berkfield will be with you shortly." she promises. I walk reluctantly into the room, hesitating in the threshold as I take in my surroundings. 

A bookshelf is stacked high with dusty books, looking as though they haven't been touched in years. Inspiration posters litter the walls, saying things such as BULLY FREE ZONE and BELIEVE. Encouragements. I cringe. I can't go anywhere without thinking of Gus, dammit.

I sink into a beanbag chair on the floor, no matter how childish it may be, grateful to rest my aching body. I recall the beanbag chair in Children's hospital that I used to sit in daily when I was young, almost claiming ownership of the thing. I would sit in front of the television with a few other kids, watching whatever cartoon at the time was entertaining us. How I wish things could be that easy: sitting in front of a screen in a beanbag chair, and being perfectly content with life, even though your lungs suck and you're surrounded by so much illness.

I crave youth. Innocence. Things that I should still be experiencing but am deprived of.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I shouldn't be thinking this way-- I am not selfish. I am not conceited. I'm lucky to be alive, I shouldn't be complaining. 

Although, I am sitting in a counselor's office, which if we're being honest here, is exactly the place to complain. That's really all they want you to do here, isn't it?

The doorknob wiggles, and a man appears on the other side. He half smiles as he sees me sitting here, as if he wasn't expecting me to be here. 

"Good morning, Hazel." he says pleasantly, crossing the room in slow strides, and sitting behind the desk. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay." I reply honestly, shrugging. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks. So, where should we begin today, Hazel?" he peers at me through his glasses, raising an eyebrow. 

The look I give him must be dubious, because he adds: "Don't worry, we don't have to talk about anything deep. Say anything you want."

"I'd rather not."

"Well, we have an hour, so unless you want to spend it awkwardly sitting here averting my eyes, I'd say talking is a good option."

After thinking for a moment, I find my mouth opening, and I begin to tell him about breakfast.

"What is your stance on eggs for breakfast?" I ask him.

The question doesn't even faze him. "I'm a vegan, actually." I smile is tugging at the edge of his lips.

"I'm a vegetarian." I tell him, although I'm not really sure why I felt the need to share this information. "But why are eggs only acceptable as breakfast? Say if I wanted to eat eggs for lunch, it would be considered brunch. But what if I just want eggs? Why does it have to be associated with breakfast?"

Mr. Berkfield nods slowly, the smile still there, his head cocked as he listens. Once I finish my stance on poultry, he chuckles. "See, now we're getting somewhere."