"What are you writing about?" My eyebrows lifted up as her fingers went wild on the keyboard, typing away every emotion before her brain threw another one at her.
"A panacea." Her words sounded muffled as her eyes focused on the bright screen, pixelated letters waltzed from one line to another.
"What's that?"
"You."
"I'm a what?"
"A panacea."
"And that is...?" I looked exasperated, trying to find out the one thing that she tied with my identity.
She looked up from her screen, a little smile tickled her lips. "Just you are."
"To Google, I go," I rolled my eyes and typed out the one-worded summary of my existence (apparently), and to my surprise, it said: a solution or remedy for all difficulties or diseases.
"You're a universal cure. You help me release all of my built-up emotions by telling you that everything will be okay, reassuring me indirectly. Even if you don't realize it, I'm not the only one in this friendship who actually benefits from our late-night conversations."
"Really?"
She really looked up this time, pushed back her laptop, and focused on me. "Yeah."
"Huh."
And then as if time had started to tick again, she placed her laptop onto her lap and—bam! A robot came to life who was rebelling against internal conflicts.
"Well, that was a sentimental moment."
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
