Chapter Text
8:05 am.
Damn it.
You sighed as you checked your phone, which was probably not the smartest thing to do while running and dodging old people on a crowded sidewalk. Inevitably you bumped into a few people, one of them being a big buff dude whose withering stare followed you long enough that your speedwalk kicked into an outright jog.
The morning wind tousled your hair and sent a shiver down your spine, making you wrap your blazer tighter around you, yet still careful not to drop your bag filled with files.
‘Please be stuck in traffic. Please be running late, too.’ you silently prayed, you really didn’t want to leave a bad impression, this morning’s first client was a relatively new one, having had only four sessions with him. Four. You were still in the fragile, getting-to-know-you phase. You really couldn’t risk seeming unprofessional and having yet another client leave you. You were already walking on thin ice with your job after five clients left in the same months. Sure, it was…partly your fault, but still! Like for example when you were sure your appointment with a client was at 7pm, not 7am! Who the hell makes an appointment to a therapist that early in the morning? Or when you had very confidently diagnosed a client with severe depression after accidentally switching up their files with another client’s.
But the rest? The rest were flukes. Bad luck. You were perfectly good at your job. Perfectly.
Your heel caught on a crack in the pavement and you stumbled, heart lurching as your bag swung dangerously wide. The office was still three blocks away. And you clung onto the hope that maybe your client overslept.
But of course, he was already there, at 8:16am, in your office, in his seat waiting for you as you caught your breath while leaning on the doorway; a man in his late-twenties dressed in a simple red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark wash jeans. Dark brown hair framed his face, softening into subtle sideburns, eyebrows so thick and perfect you found yourself a bit envious, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.
His warm yet obviously tired brown eyes followed you as you stumbled to your desk,
"So sorry, Tim," you managed between breaths, collapsing into your chair. "The subway just wouldn't—"
“It’s fine, i get that” Tim smiled awkwardly.
Your gaze drifted to the deck of cards on your side table. ‘Metaphorical’ cards. You'd seen them on insta once, they were the kind with dreamy, surreal images. You hadn't exactly used them before. But how hard could it be?
"So," you said, reaching for the deck with what you hoped was casual confidence, "I thought today we might try something different. A technique to... bypass the internal censor, let’s say. Access what's underneath the surface-level stuff." You shuffled the cards with a smile.
Tim raised an eyebrow, eyeing the cards in your hand, “You’re sure this is somehow gonna help..?”
“Of course! Just pick whichever one speaks to you the most, Tim” You fanned them out on the table between you, the images catching the morning light—moons and forests and shadowy doors.
“Mkay,” the man said with the resignation of someone who'd long stopped being surprised by the strange requests of authority figures, he reached out and selected a card.
A night landscape. An empty bench beneath a single lamppost, lighting up the small area, everything else swallowed by darkness.
Okay..what the hell do you say about this? You frankly didn’t know what the card meant, but you had to say something wise. Something that would make him feel seen and understood.
You leaned forward, brain scrambling for something insightful. Something therapist-y. "Interesting. A lantern that shines, but..." You tilted your head, letting your voice go soft. "...is needed by no one."
Tim's lips thinned into an awkward line. "It's a picture of a bench."
"It's never just a picture." You smiled and shook your head lightly. "Loneliness. Uselessness. The feeling of being present but unseen. Does that resonate?"
You didn’t let him answer and nodded. "And why do you think your eye was drawn to this image, specifically, out of all the others?"
"Because it was on top."
Ugh. Could he not cooperate? You’re trying to do your job here.
You pressed on, undeterred. "Let's try another. This time choose one that represents something you're hiding."
Tim's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not hiding anything."
"We're all hiding something." You gestured at the cards. "Go on. Don't think. Just pick."
He hesitated, fingers hovering, then grabbed one at random and flipped it over.
A figure stood on the edge of a cliff, back to the viewer, staring out at a churning sea. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The waves below crashed against jagged rocks.
Ah, you could work with this.
"The edge. The storm. The isolation." You kept your voice measured, gentle. "Tim, when you look at this—do you see a way forward? Or do you see... a way down?"
He blinked at you. "I—What?" Tim looked at you offended? Annoyed? Amused? You weren’t really sure. But his stare was making you nervous. Were you on the wrong path? Or maybe he was just deflecting, you should dig deeper.
"The pull of the void. The desire to step into the storm rather than face what's behind you." You leaned forward, earnest now. "Have you been having thoughts of—"
"Oh my god." Tim sat up fully for the first time all session, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his exhausted face. "You're trying to diagnose me with suicidal ideation because I picked a random card from a deck you definitely bought on Etsy."
"I didn't—it's a validated therapeutic—" Your eyes escaped his gaze,
"This feels less like therapy," Tim continued, gesturing vaguely at the cards, the diplomas, you, "and more like being forced to talk to a fortune teller."
"A Fortune teller?" You couldn’t help but sound offended. You quickly glanced at the diploma on your office wall before looking back at him and shifting slightly in your seat.
"You know. Smoke cleansing. Spirit animals. Interpreting the patterns in my coffee grounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if you started reading my palm,"
After a bit of silence while you were trying to think of what the hell to say to fix this situation you finally opened your mouth,
"Okay," you said slowly. "Okay. Maybe... maybe that’s enough cards for today."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"And maybe we just..." You set the deck aside, "...talk. About your sleep thing.” You saw Tim’s shoulders relax a bit as he leaned back in his chair and you got ready to listen to a podcast about things Tim does instead of sleeping.
“Yes, yes, I understand. Say, have you ever tried chamomile tea?"
You sighed for the tenth time that day as you watched the door close behind Tim. You’d managed to smooth everything out after the small ‘misunderstanding’, and you were relatively sure he wasn’t going to dump you. Probably.
You hadn't been working here that long, and honestly, sometimes it crossed your mind that what you were doing might not be entirely right or legal… but what choice did you have? Was what you were doing really so bad? You just talked to people, helped them.. Most of the clients who came to you were lonely, all they needed was someone who could listen. And maybe since you genuinely wanted to understand the people who came to you, asked for your help, you believed you weren't that bad of a person. You justified yourself by saying you were making an effort, buying reference books, those stupid cards you saw on instagram reels, and watching educational videos while eating breakfast. Surely that helped you be excellent at your job, right?
You glanced at the wall behind your desk where your newly framed certifications now hung. You'd maybe... slightly... embellished them. But people lied on resumes all the time! And besides it looked legitimate, and really, what was a piece of paper compared to actual clinical instinct? Qualified therapist or not, you wanted to get into Tim’s head.
You'd always been stubborn, even when things weren't going your way, like right now. You felt that Tim was hiding something from you. From you— his therapist, you decided that you needed to understand him not just as a patient, but at least as a person. However, that seemed like a problem, because Tim Wright, as you noticed with your therapist superpowers, was always closed off and seemed on guard even in your soft comfy armchair with fluffy cushions!
You could also note that, reading Tim's medical history before each session, some fields were missing, specifically he had some year gaps, and some pages were even torn out. During your first session, you asked him what was up with that, why it was so tattered. But Tim just rubbed the back of his neck and, as if playing dumb spread his hands, saying he didn't remember and backing it up by saying he didn't remember a lot of things (which was another strange symptom he didn’t want to elaborate on).
All of this fueled your interest. Because you wanted to help your poor patient, of course! Besides, you're his therapist, it’s your business to know this stuff. And so you started digging into Tim's medical history. After a bit of research you found out about Tim's previous hospital. You were lucky that Tim had previously been admitted to the hospital where you worked as a janitor 5 years ago, and you knew how to access and hack that old hospital website. Let’s just say this wasn’t exactly your first time doing something illegal like this.
Sure enough, you found a copy of his history, which for some reason was still in the database. Looking it over, you thought it was the same as what you had on hand. But looking closer, you realized: Tim was clearly a liar. There were 4 pages of diagnoses you had never seen. Why the hell would he hide this from a therapist?? Sure, maybe you’re not the best one out there, but still, why hide this?
Your eyes started darting across the lines, and your lips silently read, in a whisper, as if you were reading something secret, which in some way it was.
The document stated that Tim had been under observation at a mental institution since he was a small child, and it was a severe case. The boy was taken from his parents to the institution because he heard and saw things that weren’t there, couldn't sleep, and trembled all the time, stating that he saw a tall man watching him.After that, there was nothing written in the record, but you assumed he was discharged and that whatever it was that he had, it was well cured now. Well, you hoped.
You looked through all of the different diagnoses, your gaze fell on a specific one: dissociative Identity disorder. Huh.
All of this made you slightly tense. You didn't often deal with this. Actually, never in your life had you gotten a patient who was actually mentally ill and not just sad and lonely. Tim, however, seemed to be both. And, damn it, again, why didn't Tim say anything about this? Was he ashamed? Scared? Of what? Too many questions flooded your mind. But for some reason, you perked up after this mini two-hour investigation. And a small, determined smile appeared on your face. You now had access to all of his medical history, which meant you knew (sorta) what was wrong with him. So if you diagnosed him with the mental illnesses you now knew he had, you’d be right. It would be your very first correct diagnosis. Maybe your coworkers would finally see your genius and stop joking at you and hinting you weren’t a real therapist, which was right, but still! This was your chance to prove yourself!
Next week came around and you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
You watched as your dear patient took a seat in the armchair, your smile gleaming.
“Ah, Tim! Timmy Timtim! Good to see you! Nice day isn’t it? How was your week?” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your desk, your voice cheerful.
Tim looked mildly uncomfortable, he raised an eyebrow, silently judging you, but still replied with a small awkward smile.
“I mean, fine I guess. You look pleased. Good weekend?”
You clasped your hands together, maybe a little too eagerly, and forced yourself to lean back. *
Casual. Professional.
"The best," you said brightly. "Lots of... reading. But enough about me,"
Tim's eyebrow stayed where it was. "Right."
"So!" You grabbed your notepad, pen held with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Sleep any better this week? Tried the breathing exercises I suggested?"
He settled into the armchair, his face taking a neutral expression as he shrugged,
"Breathing exercises are useless," he said, with no real heat. "They just make me think about how I'm not sleeping."
"Well, did you try them?"
"...No."
You made a note. 'Non-compliant with breathing exercises. Possible resistance to relaxation techniques.' That was the kind of thing a real therapist wrote, right? It sounded official.
"Okay then." You tapped your pen against the pad. "No screen time 30 minutes before bed at least?"
“Oh please, I barely look at my phone and my Tv’s broken.”
You hummed in approval, but there was no weight behind it. This was the easy part—the dance of asking questions you both knew he wouldn't fully answer, of pretending you were making progress when really you were just... sitting together. In reality you could not care less about your patient’s sleep. Okay, that was a bit harsh, but it was hard to pay any interest to something so mundane. Most of your patients at least had some drama tied to their trauma: a cheating boyfriend, a fake friend, an immature mother— the usual, but it was interesting to listen to, it’s like your job consisted of watching a reality tv drama show and getting paid for it! This guy however… Well, to put it simply, all Tim was was a lonely, probably kinda broke man who couldn’t sleep properly. Boring! Now you knew there was much more to him than what meets the eye (only after you broke into a database for his info), it was the interesting parts that he kept from you. Sure, you felt guilty for having a mindset like that, it was..not very professional to say the least. You were supposed to help these people, not be entertained by them! But as long as they didn’t know, you figured there was no harm being done.
What you actually wanted to ask sat heavy on your tongue. 'Why did you lie about your medical history? What happened when you were a kid? What the hell is actually wrong with you?'
But, sadly, you couldn't. You couldn't ask any of that, because you weren't supposed to know. You'd obtained that information through means that were, to put it delicately, not even adjacent to legal. If he found out, you'd be fired. Possibly arrested. And also most likely never allowed within fifty feet of him again.
So instead, you smiled and nodded and made more notes about breathing exercise (and doodling cute little cat faces)
Dissociative Identity Disorder. You'd read everything you could find on it: articles, forums, even a few true-crime documentaries that you watched with the lights on, of course. Most of it was probably sensationalized nonsense, but you'd picked up enough terminology to sound knowledgeable. Or at least, more knowledgeable than you'd been before, which was a bar so low it was basically in hell.
You also couldn’t help but wonder about his childhood. Growing up in a mental hospital must’ve been rough itself even without counting the illnesses he’d been diagnosed with. Schizophrenia had been one of them on the list,you recalled, but right now as you looked at Tim, took in his behaviour and mannerisms, while you were no professional, you didn’t see him as a schizo. He was just a guy. A tired guy.
Whatever it was, it was well cured now, you'd assumed. But as you watched Tim pick at a loose thread on his sleeve, shoulders hunched, you wondered if cured was the right word. Or if that was even something that happened with this kind of thing.
"Can I ask you something?" The words came out before you could stop them.
Tim looked up, wary. "Aren't you supposed to?"
You set your pen down, doing your best to look patient and non-threatening. "You mentioned before that you don't remember a lot of your childhood. Have you ever... wanted to?"
"Not really." His expression was grim, but he still looked like he didn’t really care. "If my brain decided to erase that part, it probably had a good reason."
You hesitated. The psychology 101 textbook answer floated through your mind: repression, avoidance, unprocessed trauma, a therapeutic opportunity to explore underlying issues. But those were someone else's words. Someone who'd actually gone to school for this.
"I'm just curious," you said instead, with a shrug that you hoped came across as casual and not desperately hungry for information. "You're a mystery, Tim. Mysteries make me curious."
He let out a snort, dry and surprised.
"That's kinda a weird thing for a therapist to say,"
"Is it?" You tilted your head, keeping your smile in place. "I think all my patients are interesting. It's why I got into this field."
It was a lie, but it sounded nice.
Tim didn't look convinced. But he also didn't look like he was about to walk out, which you were choosing to count as a win.
“Well, think about it.. Have you ever felt like there are different people living inside you?”
“Uh..?”
You pushed on,
"Imagine this: there’s “Nocturnal Tim" — the one who doesn't sleep,who lives through the years you can’t remember. And then here's "Daytime Tim" — the one who goes to work and talks to me. That could explain the insomnia too. Insomnia often arises from internal conflict. One part of the personality wants to sleep, while another part stays awake, guards, controls.”
You actually had no idea if this was true. Did insomnia and DID have any correlation? You didn’t know. Did it sound legit? Sure, good enough,
Tim stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed and a grimace on his face. "There's nothing going on. I just don't sleep."
“Okay but are you su—”
"I told you," he said, and his voice firm, "I don't remember. And I'm not interested in digging around for things that probably aren't there."
"I want to help you," you said finally, frowning, "But I can't help you if I don't understand what's actually going on."
“Well right now it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to help me. It feels like your trying to solve me like I'm some sort of puzzle. Like you just want to diagnose me with some nonsense and hop onto your next patient. My symptoms are insomnia and fatigue. Everything you've extrapolated beyond that is your own fantasy. ”
You sat up straight. "I'm your therapist. It’s my job to diagnose you. My job is to understand you. But I can’t do so accurately if you’re not cooperating."
"I think we're done for today." Tim stood up..
You rose too, hands raised slightly, palms out.
"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry. I pushed. That was—I shouldn't have—"
He paused at the door, hand on the knob, not looking at you. "You're right. There are things I don't remember. Things I maybe don't *want* to remember. " He stopped, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. "But at the end of the day I'm just trying to get through the night without losing my mind. And i’d appreciate it if you'd stick to helping with that. I come here to talk about sleep. About stress. About what's bothering me. Not for you to go hunting through what I'm hiding in the trash bin."
Then he opened the door, and you watched him walk out into the hallway with that same exhausted stride and you felt the guilt settle in your chest.
You sank back into your chair, staring at the now closed door, your notepad full of half-finished thoughts and observations you couldn't use.
Dissociative Identity Disorder, you thought again. Childhood trauma. Visual hallucinations..
And somewhere underneath all of it, was a person who just wanted to sleep.
Your eyes drifted to the wall of certificates, the one that still looked a little too gold. It felt like a costume that didn't quite fit.To be frank, it didn’t fit at all.
But at this point you were almost intruiged.
You just had to figure out how to help him without letting him know how much you already knew.