Page 46 of The Therapist

“Do you love me?” I ask.

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, like a fog I can’t wade through. I wait, my heart pounding, my ribs tight, desperate for something—anything—to fill the space between us.

The question still hangs in the air, fragile as glass.

Cooper doesn’t answer.

I see it happen in real time—the way his expression shutters, the way his body goes rigid, every muscle locking up like he’spreparing for a blow. Lie to my face because my heart can’t handle anything else, I think

He doesn’t look at me, not really. His eyes dart everywhere but at me—my face, my mouth, the sheets tangled around my body. I swear I can hear the frantic churn of his thoughts, the war waging behind his gaze, but he won’t let me in.

And that’s when I know.

My stomach twists. My throat clenches tight.

The realization cuts me open.

Because if he did love me—if he had even the faintest idea that what we had meant something—he would say it. Maybe not in those words, maybe not in a declaration dripping in poetry and romance, but in some way.

Instead, there’s only silence.

A sharp, ugly thing that slices between us, bleeding out everything I thought we were.

I force a swallow, but it does nothing to ease the burn clawing up my throat.

“If there’s anything you want to tell me, now’s the time,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

It’s not a demand.

It’s a lifeline.

A final plea.

But Cooper just stares at me.

I see the hesitation. The conflict. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, but nothing comes.

Nothing at all.

A hollow ache sits heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

I stare at him, my stomach twisting, nausea creeping up my throat.

What have I done?

The question rattles inside my skull, over and over, until I can’t take it anymore. I shove the sheets away, the fabric cool against my suddenly feverish skin, and slide out of bed.

I move quietly, methodically, as I gather my things. My dress from the floor, my bra hooked over the chair, my heels kicked haphazardly near the door. Each article of clothing feels heavier than it should, weighted with regret.

Flash stirs in the corner, his ears twitching as I kneel to clip his leash onto his collar. He lets out a small whine, sensing my mood, but I don’t have the patience to comfort him. Not now.

I take one last look at Cooper—at the way his lips are slightly parted, yet not uttering a word.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. My stomach is a pit of acid and my hands are shaking as I slip out the door, slamming it behind me.

By the time I’m in my car, Flash curled up in the passenger seat, my pulse is a relentless drum in my ears.

I grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, my jaw tight as I pull onto the road.

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