“Just for the Session”

Mira had never needed therapy. Her friends said she was the most well-adjusted person they knew — emotionally fluent, always cracking jokes, never stayed mad for more than ten minutes. But that all changed the day she saw him.

It was a rainy Tuesday when she followed her mom into the clinic for her weekly therapy appointment. Mira slumped into the waiting room chair and glanced up from her phone — and there he was.
Teenage. Messy hair. Blue clipboard. Name tag. Eli (Intern).

The clipboard might as well have glowed. Mira sat up straighter, blinking. Intern?! She watched as he called a patient in with the gentlest voice. A little smile. A nod. His voice was confident, but not full of himself. Probably a senior, maybe early college.

She leaned toward the receptionist.
“Hi,” she whispered. “Can I, like... book a session?”

The receptionist blinked. “For yourself?”
“Yes. Emotional instability,” Mira lied casually. “You know. Big feelings.”
She glanced toward Eli, now disappearing into one of the therapy rooms. “I think I need to talk to him.”

The next week

Mira sat across from Eli in a room that smelled faintly of mint and old coffee. A box of tissues sat between them like a peace offering.

“So,” Eli said, clicking his pen. “Why are you here today?”

Mira crossed her legs. “I have problems.”
He nodded. “Okay. Want to tell me about them?”
“I... feel misunderstood,” she said dramatically. “Like, deeply. My friends don’t really get me.”
“Mm.” Eli’s eyes flicked up, curious. “In what way?”

Shoot. She hadn’t planned that far.

“Well, I guess I... read poetry and nobody else does,” she improvised. “And I think a lot about, like, life and stuff. The void. The moon. Sandwiches.”

Eli raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Sandwiches?”

“I feel like we don’t talk enough about them. Emotionally, I mean.”

He chuckled. “Got it. So... a mix of existential thoughts and pastrami?”

Mira grinned. “Exactly.”

They talked for half an hour — mostly Mira rambling, occasionally steering the conversation to him.

“So what made you want to do therapy stuff?” she asked, innocently.

Eli smiled, eyes thoughtful. “I like listening. People have so many weird and beautiful layers. I want to help people untangle their thoughts.”

And you’re hot, Mira added mentally. She nodded wisely instead. “That’s very noble.”

The next few sessions

Mira kept coming back. Each time, her “problems” became more elaborate.

“My cat won’t look at me anymore.”
“My dreams are too cinematic.”
“Sometimes I feel like a croissant. Flaky. Hollow. Possibly French.”

Eli never called her out. But she noticed his smiles got warmer, his questions more playful. He remembered little things — like how she didn’t like overhead lighting, or how she always tapped her left foot when she was nervous.

One day, halfway through a fake story about her imaginary twin sister who stole her identity at a party, Eli set his pen down.

“Mira,” he said carefully, “can I ask you something?”

She froze. Busted.

“Do you really need therapy?”

She bit her lip. “Define need.”

Eli laughed — really laughed this time — and she laughed too, helplessly.

There was a pause. They looked at each other. And for a second, the room felt warmer than mint and old coffee ever could.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’m technically not allowed to see someone who isn’t a real client.”

Mira’s heart dropped. “So you’re kicking me out?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m just saying... if you ever want to talk. Outside of here. As two totally stable, non-therapy people...”

She blinked. “Like at a coffee shop?”

“Exactly.”

She smiled. “Only if they serve emotionally complex sandwiches.”

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