CHAPTER 39: THE APPOINTMENT

The therapist’s office smelled like lavender and old paper.

It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly. Just artificial. Forced. Like someone had taken the idea of calm and bottled it, hoping the scent alone would undo years of silence, stress, and scar tissue. The room was warm, but not hot. Cozy, but not home. There were throw pillows on the couch, a woven rug on the floor, and three tasteful prints on the wall—all shades of blue and gray, meant to suggest calm seas and still skies.

Seraphina sat on the edge of the couch, her spine a perfect line of tension, her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t sink into the cushions. She didn’t uncross her legs. She didn’t let her eyes linger anywhere too long.

The woman across from her was in her early fifties, with short graying hair tucked behind her ears and the kind of soft features that probably made her popular with first-time clients. She wore a knit cardigan and flat shoes and smiled like she’d already forgiven Sera for whatever she might say.

"I’m Dr. March," she said gently. "Your mother gave me a bit of context, but I’d rather hear it from you. What’s been going on?"

"Nothing," Sera replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

The word dropped between them like a dead weight.

Dr. March didn’t flinch. "Nothing is fine," she said. "Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to talk about."

Sera didn’t respond. She let her eyes move slowly around the room—over the bookshelf behind the therapist’s desk, the fern dying in the corner, the soft ticking of the wall clock.

Dr. March folded her hands in her lap. "Your mother said you’ve been listening to survivalist podcasts. That you’ve started stockpiling supplies. She mentioned you withdrew a significant amount of money from your investment account."

"I like being prepared, and I hardly think that investing in a home is an unwise decision."

"That’s reasonable," Dr. March said. "A lot of people like the idea of preparedness. It makes us feel safe. But sometimes, when people feel deeply unsafe, they overcorrect. Try to control what they can. Do you feel unsafe, Sera?"

Of course, she didn’t feel safe. She knew what was coming.

But the words simply sat on her tongue, unable to get out.

But she didn’t say it. She just shifted slightly, arms tightening.

Dr. March leaned back, trying to give space. "Has anything happened recently to make you feel uncertain about the future?"

Sera’s mouth curled into the barest hint of a smile. Not a warm one.

"Does the world look certain to you?" she asked coolly cocking her head to the side.

The therapist nodded once, acknowledging the question. "No. I suppose not. But that uncertainty affects people in different ways. Some become anxious. Some try to ignore it. And some prepare."

Sera smiled brightly. "And which one am I?"

"I don’t know yet," said Dr. March. "But I’d like to find out. If that’s something you’re willing to share."

Another pause.

The silence in the room began to stretch—not awkward, just thick. Like walking through snowdrifts instead of open air. Dr. March made a note on her pad. The pen moved slowly. Deliberately.

Sera narrowed her eyes. "What are you writing?"

"Just thoughts," the therapist replied. "Sometimes a sentence. Sometimes just a word."

"Like what?"

Dr. March considered for a beat. "Detached," she said honestly. "Guarded. Intelligent. Controlled. And scared."

"I’m not scared."

The words came out sharp. Clipped.

Dr. March only nodded. "Then tell me what you are."

Sera looked at the bookshelf again. Rows of psychology books. One about cognitive behavioral therapy. Another about childhood trauma. A mug with faded letters that read, Be gentle with yourself. The smell of lavender grew stronger the longer she sat.

"I’m not here to be analyzed," she said finally. "I’m only here because my mother dragged me here. Because my sister couldn’t keep her mouth shut."

"She cares about you."

Sera’s eyes flicked back to Dr. March. "You don’t know her."

"No," Dr. March agreed. "But I do know that sometimes the people who care about us the most are the ones who misunderstand us the worst. They want to help, but they don’t know how. So they push. Or they panic. Or they try to fix something that isn’t broken."

"I’m not broken."

"I didn’t say you were."

Another silence. Longer this time.

Outside the office window, traffic moved past in slow motion—cars crawling through the noon hour like ants over gravel. A dog barked in the distance, and a streetcar bell chimed.

Dr. March shifted slightly in her chair. "You said last night you wanted your parents to stock up. To prepare. You told them that something was coming. That food might be scarce."

"I didn’t say something was coming," Sera corrected. "I said things are shifting. That the weather isn’t right. That supply chains are weak. And that we shouldn’t assume comfort is permanent."

Dr. March nodded. "And how did they respond?"

"They smiled. Nodded. Told me they’d ’think about it.’" Her mouth twisted. "Which is the polite way of saying no."

"That upset you."

Sera didn’t answer.

"It’s hard," Dr. March continued, "when we feel like we’re the only ones seeing clearly. When others refuse to listen, it can feel like betrayal."

Sera turned to face her fully for the first time. "It was betrayal."

Dr. March met her gaze. "Tell me why."

Sera inhaled slowly. "Because I tried. I didn’t say anything insane. I wasn’t yelling or crying or making a scene. I laid it out logically. Step by step. What we should do. What might happen. And instead of even considering that I could be right, they smiled at me like I was a child with a wild imagination. Then my mother took me out to lunch just to corner me into seeing a therapist."

"Do you think you need help?"

"I think I need to stop talking," Sera said quietly. "To all of them."

Dr. March didn’t speak for a while.

The clock ticked. The lavender diffuser hissed softly from the corner.

"You sound tired," she said eventually.

"I am," Sera admitted.

"Of what?"

"Of being surrounded by people who don’t listen."

Dr. March nodded. "That’s isolating."

Sera looked at the floor. "Not as isolating as being gaslit."

A beat.

Then: "You’re not crazy, Sera. Nothing you’ve told me sounds irrational. You’re responding to uncertainty with preparation. That’s a coping mechanism. But the disconnect between you and your family—that hurts. And that’s worth talking about."

Sera didn’t answer. Not right away.

Then she said, "I’m not going to warn them again."

"You don’t have to."

"If winter comes and it’s brutal... if food runs out or prices spike or the trucks stop showing up, and they look at me like I should’ve done more... I won’t lift a finger."

Dr. March’s voice was low. Gentle. "You’re angry."

"No," Sera said. "I’m done."

Dr. March gave a soft nod and wrote something else down.

The rest of the session passed in silence. Sera didn’t speak again, and Dr. March didn’t push. When the timer buzzed, she only smiled and said, "You’re welcome to come back. No pressure."

Sera stood, smoothing down her coat.

"I won’t," she said.

She left the office without a backward glance, the scent of lavender clinging to her clothes like a warning.

She’d spoken her last words.

Now they could all fend for themselves.