Page 12 of The Flames Between Us

I smile despite myself. "It means I don't pretend to be some blank slate with no personal history, but I also don't center my experiences in a space meant for yours."

"Fair enough," he says. "But you do understand this identity thing personally."

It's not a question. Ollis Crawford seems to have a knack for seeing past my professional veneer, which is both unsettling and oddly refreshing.

I adjust my glasses, buying a moment to decide how much to share. "Yes. I do."

He waits, his patience a subtle challenge. Our session time is technically over, but something about this moment feels important—a potential turning point in building the trust needed for his therapy to progress.

"I wasn't always a psychologist," I find myself saying. "My first career was in emergency medicine. I was an ER doctor for seven years."

Surprise registers on his face. "What happened?"

The familiar tightness creeps into my chest—the same physiological response I just helped him identify in himself. How ironic.

"A surgical error," I say quietly. "A teenage girl came in after a car accident. Internal bleeding. I was certain I knew where it was coming from, but I was wrong. By the time we found the actual source..." I trail off, the memory still sharp despite the years. "She didn't make it."

Ollis leans forward slightly. "That's why you left medicine?"

"Not immediately," I clarify. "I tried to push through, told myself it was part of the job—exactly what you said about losing victims. But the hospital administration required therapy as part of their review process."

"And it helped?" There's no skepticism in his tone now, just genuine curiosity.

"It did, though not in the way I expected." I find myself relaxing into the story, traveling back to that pivotal period. "I went in thinking therapy would help me get past the guilt and back to being the doctor I was before. Instead, it helped me recognize that I'd been struggling with aspects of emergency medicine all along—the pace, the pressure, the life-or-death decisions with limited information."

"So, you became a therapist instead."

I nod. "I already had a bachelor's in psychology before medical school. I went back for my doctorate, specializing in trauma and first responders because I understood the unique pressures of life-and-death work."

A shadow of a smile touches his lips. "No wonder you didn't give me the usual 'it wasn't your fault' speech. You know it doesn't help."

"It doesn't," I agree. "What helps is understanding why we respond the way we do and finding ways to process experiences so they don't control us."

The analog clock on my wall shows we're now fifteen minutes over our scheduled time. I should wrap this up—my next patient should already be waiting. But something in Ollis's attentive gaze keeps me talking.

"The hardest part wasn't losing the career," I admit. "It was losing my identity as a doctor. For years, that's how I defined my worth—by the lives I saved, the problems I solved, the crises I managed."

"And now?" he asks.

I pause, considering. "Now I measure success differently. It's not about heroic interventions but about being present with people through their darkest moments, offering tools rather than solutions."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize I've shared more than I intended—more than is strictly appropriate. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I straighten in my chair, reclaiming my professional posture.

"I'm sorry," I say, glancing at the clock. "I've kept you well past our allotted time."

Ollis follows my gaze to the clock. "I didn't notice."

Something about how he says it—casual yet sincere—causes an uncomfortable flutter in my stomach. This is precisely why therapists maintain boundaries: to prevent the blurring of lines that can compromise treatment.

"I appreciate you sharing that with me," he says, rising from his chair. His height and solid presence seem to fill my office. "Makes me feel less like a lab specimen under observation."

I stand as well, maintaining a professional distance. "That was never the intention."

"I know," he says, and I believe that he does.

As I walk him to the door, I'm struck again by the urge to touch his arm—a gesture of connection I would never actually make. The impulse itself is a warning sign, one I need to heed.

"Same time next week?" he asks at the threshold.

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