therapy // w. nylander

1 ⇒ "the staring contest"

"INITIALLY I DIDN'T WANNA FALL FOR YOU"

Constance steps into the waiting room, hair distressed, a brown paper bag tucked under her arm, black dark roast coffee in hand, and a considerably irregular smile playing her thin pink lips.

Her therapist Amara, a little bit younger than she had expected the first time she scheduled an appointment and only a few years older than Constance herself, had to cancel their last meeting due to a family emergency— or at least that's what Amara claimed.

Constance doubted this. Not because she didn't believe Amara, but because as she was studying at her favourite cafe, she happened to accidentally witness her therapist bright eyed and mid-way through falling in love with a man who had absolutely zero fashion sense.

But anyways, they had rescheduled.

Instead of the usual weekly appointment on Friday morning at 9:00, Tuesday fit both of their schedules a lot better than the previous timing.

Different days means different regulars. Different messed up people, some not even messed up, just problematic.

She would get used to it, just like she gets used to everything else that constantly changes around her.

Always changing, always adjusting.

Her dirty green eyes flicker down to the tiny silver watch wrapped around her wrist. She watches the clock hands tick slowly as she plops down into a mustard yellow arm chair.

It's only 4:15, and she has around thirty minutes to kill before Amara will see her.

Pulling out her palaeontology homework, Constance rakes her fingers though her dark brown hair, frowning at all the work she has to complete.

Yes, she likes dinosaurs, and other dead things that will most likely never return to earth again.

Throughout the next twenty minutes she slowly chews little pieces of her double fudge brownie, taking small sips of her coffee and trying her hardest to focus on her homework.

It works pretty well, that is until the door swings open, a tall blonde man walking in looking perfect effortlessly, like he's a runway model.

This isn't fair. He doesn't get to look like that just because.

He's new, not someone Constance had seen in the waiting room before.

But then she realizes that shes the new one, and that he's probably here every Tuesday at approximately, she glances down to her watch, 4:37.

Deep down Constance is enthralled. Enthralled that she doesn't have to spend her time in the waiting room with the old lady who chews her gum just to make sure the people across the city can hear the horrific squishing noises.

Instead now she gets to see this insanely hot stranger, every Tuesday.

At first he doesn't notice her eyes trained on his shiny dark golden hair, though it wasn't the first thing she noticed about the man.

She noticed a lot of things. He looked young, maybe even a teenager, his baby face clearly evident. Yet it was still obvious that he was an adult. A light tan warmed his skin, emitting a summery glow. He has these eyes. They're in between a dark and light blue, sort of like someone accidentally mixed two shades of paint together. Even from across the room Constance notices the speckles of indigo, electing her attention.