Page 50 of Hannah.

“I don’t know if I believe that,” I press further. “That doesn’t sound like you at all. Since when you have had this urge?”

I can see the hurt written all over her beautiful face, her dark hair falling forward as she turns her head to look away from me.“If you really have to know…since I was twelve or so. Why does it matter?”

Hearing the way her voice shakes feels like a fist squeezing my heart. Sweet Hannah, a confessed thief in my living room. She’s likely never told this to anyone before, and although she’s ready to bolt, she trusted me enough to give me the truth. She needs help, and deep down, she must know it.

I rub small circles on her shoulders with my thumbs, feeling the tension beneath my fingers. “Because I want to understand what drives you to do that,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

She swallows once, then twice, her throat bobbing nervously. “I…I can’t help it; it’s like I can’t stop myself.”

“Did you, eh, get diagnosed?” I ask, keeping my tone just as low.

She nods but doesn’t say a word.

“What did the doctors say?”

“You know what they said…” her voice is barely audible, thick with embarrassment.

I gently lift her chin, making her meet my gaze. “Can you tell me what they said?” I ask, my eyes searching hers for answers.

Hannah looks away, her face flushing with shame. She hesitates, the words stuck in her throat. “They said I have a strong case of… well….”

“Of what, Hannah?” I press gently.

“Kleptomania,” she finally whispers, her voice barely above a breath.

Her confession hangs in the air between us, heavy and raw. I can see the struggle in her eyes, the conflict between wanting to hide and the need to be understood. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in as the reality of her condition settles over us.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, my voice softening. “We’ll figure this out together.”

With the hard truth out in the open, a heavy weight lifts from the room, replaced by an unexpected sense of shared vulnerability. In a moment of compassion, I pull her into a gentle embrace, feeling the subtle tremor in her shoulders.

“It’s okay, Hannah. You can trust me,” I assure her, my words whispered against her hair. “But we need to talk about this. Do your parents know?”

Her head shakes against my chest, silently confirming that she’s been bearing this burden all alone since she was a child. “No one knows,” she confesses, her voice barely audible. “No one but you, now.”

I pull away slightly, keeping my hands on her shoulders, a comforting gesture. “What about the odd things in your collection at home? Every single one of them is stolen?”

Hannah nods, and I sense the weight of guilt she carries. “Yeah, most of them. I never thought anyone would notice.”

The vulnerability in her eyes tugs at something within me, perhaps a desire to shield her from judgment. “You don’t have to do this alone. We can find a way to help you through this.”

She meets my gaze, gratitude mingled with hesitation. “You won’t report me?”

I shake my head. “No, I won’t. But you need to find a way to address this. It’s not just about the stolen objects; it’s about understanding why you do it.”

She nods, and in that shared moment of honesty, I realize the depth of trust she's placed in me. This has been so hard on her, but there’s also a glimmer of hope–a chance for her to confront the shadows that have long trailed behind her.

“Where do I go from here?” Hannah asks, her voice small. Scared, even. I’d do anything to take all of that away from her. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you think about talking to a therapist again?” I suggest, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “The college has a few that I could help connect you with.”

“Maybe…” She exhales slowly but doesn’t pull back from me, and I’m not about to push her away as long as she wants to be close to me. “No one can find out, Johan; I’m serious. Especially not my parents. Dad would drag me home so fast….”

Running my hands up and down her arms to settle her, I try to offer her some reassurance. “There are laws in place to maintain your privacy; don’t worry about that.”

Still looking up at me with wide, bright eyes, she ventures another question, her voice almost a hesitant whisper. “Do you see me as a monster now?” Hannah twists her fingers in the front of my shirt like she’s holding on to me, afraid of my answer.

Poor, sweet girl. I can’t help but smile softly. “No,” I insist, my thumb brushing gently against her cheek. “There are worse things in life.”

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