CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THERAPY III

Dr. Jessica Yamada—or rather, the woman who bore her face in this world—waited with quiet patience. Her expression was open, composed, the kind of steady presence that invited people to speak. Contessa had seen it before, and recognised it as a tool. A practiced approach meant to cultivate trust.

It wasn’t working.

“Take your time,” Dr. Yamada said gently.

Contessa considered that. The phrasing was intentional, encouraging. But time wasn’t what she needed. She had all the words, all the responses, neatly organized and prepared. Efficiency dictated that she should say what was expected, answer the questions, and leave.

Instead, she she said nothing.

Dr. Yamada didn’t press. She let the quiet settle, as if trusting Contessa to fill it.

It was a tactic. It was familiar.

Contessa exhaled slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “What else do you wish to know?”

Dr. Yamada tilted her head slightly. “That depends. What do you wish to talk about?”

Open-ended—designed to make her take ownership of the conversation. Contessa met her gaze. “I have been told I misunderstand things.”

Dr. Yamada’s expression remained neutral, but there was something knowing in her eyes. “Do you think that’s true?”

Contessa hesitated. “…Yes.”

“And does that bother you?”

She opened her mouth to say no. To assert that her way of thinking had been an asset, that detachment had once been a necessity. That emotions, in the grand scheme of things, had never been relevant unless used to achieve victory. 

But something about the question—about the way it was asked, not as an evaluation but as a genuine inquiry—made her pause.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Dr. Yamada’s gaze softened. “That’s an answer too.” She let the words settle before continuing. “And do you believe you need to?”

Need. 

That was the real question, wasn’t it?

Contessa had spent years knowing everything. Every path, every choice, every outcome—with certainty.  

And yet. 

She had stood in a funeral home and failed to understand the weight of grief. She had watched Maggie look at her with something close to sadness and realized—belatedly, frustratingly—that it mattered.

She didn’t know what to say.

Dr. Yamada studied her, then spoke carefully. “You don’t have to have an answer right now. Therapy isn’t about fixing something broken—it’s about understanding yourself.”

Understanding.

The crux of her problem, it seemed.

Her hands curled slightly in her lap. “I have spent my life… looking at the world from a distance.”

Dr. Yamada’s gaze didn’t waver. “And now?”

Contessa was silent for a moment, considering her own answer. Then, quietly, she said, “Now, I am trying to be part of it.”

Dr. Yamada’s smile was small but warm. “Maybe it’s worth seeing where that leads.”