#in session

You have gotten to know Tom really well. Naturally. With how much you know about Tom and his past, you would consider him a friend if it not for your profession. You suppose it's to be expected when you've been tending to a patient for hourly sessions, weekly for seven years. And as a result it is without a doubt one of the strongest relationships you have ever developed with a patient. Even so that you find guilt in saying that having sessions with him tend to be your highlight of the week.

Despite this, he provokes a real challenge in your line of work. On the outside he's nice, caring; a gentle guy whose sweet-natured affability would trick you into thinking that he's just the same on the inside. But alas, the polarity between who he is on the outside and who he is on the inside are like that of the North and South pole. They couldn't be more dissimilar.

"What was it this time? I know you have a few..." you ask.

"The one where I see myself, well a reflection of me, pretending to be me and I just hate him. He's everything I'm not. But no matter how hard I try I can't escape him."

"And what exactly does this 'reflection' do in your dream?"

"He does everything I couldn't, says everything I would never, just completely paint the wrong picture of myself." He re-positions himself in the single tub chair. "But the worst of it is that everyone believes it, y'know? Everyone believes the fraud. Like, he's stolen my identity and I can't get it back."

And it seems that the dissimilarity between his identities manifests in his dreams.

"What is it that he does or says that you hate?”

His mind stumbles over the question, as if giving himself time to remember the specifics but only gives a general answer.

"Just trivial stuff. Political opinions, difference in interests, taste, music, personality; those kind of things. It's like when I watch myself I'd rather be anywhere else, I'd rather be someone else. That's how much I hate it."

As he continues to describe his dreams to you, you can't help but analyse every thought as he expresses it. A few questions still circle around your head as you observe him with every mannerism he displays, quickly jotting them down of your notepad to reference later. You've still yet to determine whether he fears becoming this person, and his own mind is constantly reminding him of who he doesn't want to be, or rather he hates this person because it's who he wants to become, but can't.

"And do you think you have these dreams because that's what you believe people think of you in real life? In your mind, do they think of you as the person you don't want to be?"

"It's not that I don't want to be that person, it's more that I'm not him."

Bingo.

"Okay, I'm going to give you this blank piece of paper and what I want you to do is to write everything that describes this version of you in your dreams. Drawings, adjectives, anything descriptive. I'll give you a couple of minutes to do this yourself. I'm going to grab something to drink. Would you like anything?"

"Sure, just some water. Thanks."

You leave the room taking one last glimpse of Tom behind you, heavily preoccupied with the task you set him. You're curious to see what he writes down.

One thing that you understand about Tom is that he's quite expressive; he challenges himself with the most advanced of emotive language that it bypasses you having to translate what it is exactly he's saying or thinking. Most patients lack clarity, or simply, the words to describe remotely anything about what they're feeling. If anything, they're ambiguous, inarticulate and uninterpretable which makes that patient very difficult to empathise with. Believe it or not, there's a difference between 'I'm sad' and 'I'm heartbroken'.

But with Tom, he's just so eloquent and it leaves you marvelling over his self-expression despite his dyslexia. If there was the possibility to publish a book containing some of the things he's said or written during these sessions without breaching confidentiality, you would do it in a heartbeat.

So when it comes to descriptions or anything of the type, getting Tom to write things down tends to do him, and you, a favour.

After enough time you return with his drink in hand. As you pass the glass of water, you can't help but catch a glimpse of some of the words he's written. You quickly remind yourself that you asked him to describe this 'dream' version of himself. Already your mind is whirling into action, interested and querying his choice of words, not because you don't understand them, but because you question who it is he's really describing. Hence your quick reminder.

"How did you find that task?" He answers with a simple nod of the head. "Would you prefer for me to read them? Or would you rather read them to me?" Again, his wordless responses gives you your answer. Tom hands over the A4 piece of paper and instantly your eyes latch onto a few words.

Confident. Charming. Witty. Intelligent. Pragmatic. Affectionate. Talented.

Poetic, you add.

"To confirm," you clear your throat, wanting to make this as concise as possible, "these are words that describe this dream version of you, yes?" He nods. "This describes, as you say, the 'fraud' in your dreams." He nods again, but corrects you.

"Nightmares."

"Yes, of course, nightmares. And you're frustrated because he's not you, and you're not him."

"Correct."

"Then I'll ask you this," you say with a softened voice, leaning forward ever so slightly: engages the patient, sparks their interest and ensures they're listening. Which it does.

"How would people describe you?"

Tom shifts uncomfortably in his chair and instinctively casts his eyes to the window, to outside. He takes a heavy breath and after just a moment's silence diverts his attention back to you, as if reminding himself that he still has to answer your question. For once, he seems a little lost for words. But you give him time understanding it's a loaded question, even for you.

"Well...uh, I've never actually asked what anyone thinks of me, not really." A gentle smile teases your lips, knowing exactly what you're inviting. It takes a moment or two for Tom to realise why you're smiling, and indeed, with a slightly embarrassed twinkle in his eye, accepts the invitation.

"Tom, I've known you for seven years. I believe that makes me qualified," his smile brims his eyes. "Go on, then. Ask me." With a smile still perched on his face, he uncrosses his legs but clasps his hands, leans forwards just ever so slightly and directly addresses you with those hopeful brown eyes.

Your name is the first thing to roll off his lips, "what do you think of me?"

You say nothing. Well, you don't need to say anything because it's already been written down for you. With the piece in paper still in hand, you slide it gently across the coffee table between you, his words facing him. "This...is what I think of you."

Confident. Charming. Witty. Intelligent. Pragmatic. Affectionate. Talented.

Tom's eyes lower to the sheet of paper, bewildered. You acknowledge the hesitance as he begins to pick it up and reads over his words.

"There's a few I'd add but that mostly sums it up in all honesty." You continue to observe how he processes your thoughts of him. And you have to agree with yourself, it is true. From what you gather, Tom is everything he wishes to be, but yet he battles a mental block that otherwise deceives him, which you have already deemed will be your next obstacle to tackle in Tom's progress. Combining both your professional and personal judgement wasn't exactly what you were trained to do, but in this situation it's completely necessary to help Tom realise his identity.

"Why can't I see what you see in me?"

"Lack of self-esteem - there must be a voice inside your head, Tom, that controls you into thinking that you're not who you really are, that..." you pick up your notepad, scanning down the list of quotes, "you 'would rather be someone else'. And really, that desired 'someone else' is you, do you understand? The version of yourself you see in your nightmares isn't in fact a fraud, but rather your true self. The fraud is really that person that doubts it all; the voice in your head telling you lies about yourself. It's almost as if your mind is against you, but I can promise you that we can fix that. We can balance that out. Together."

For the first time in what seems like a while, Tom looks up from the piece of paper in front of him with that same affectionate smile. The embarrassed twinkle is gone and instead a confident sparkle remains. He reaches out and simply places his hand over yours.

"Thank you...for the kind words. I may not believe you just yet but I trust you."

"No need to thank me, Tom. Those kind words came from you, remember? They belong to you."

Just as the clock ticks on to a new hour, you both stand to leave whilst in the midst of discussing your next appointment together. As he leaves, he hands you his piece of paper but you refuse him.

"You keep it. I already know what you're like. You need the reminder more than I do."

"Thanks, again. Oh, and..." He doesn't give as much as a second to anticipate the end of his sentence before he envelopes you, smothering you into him with his arms tightly wrapped around you. It's a first for both him and you but eventually you succumb to his hug, albeit it's not usually routine as his therapist but the hour is up and the appointments over. This isn't you being a therapist, this is you being a friend.

"Take care of yourself, yeah?" you muffle from beneath his shoulder.

"I will. I'll see you next week." You nod as offer him a smile to send him on his way.

You can't wait for next week.

~~~~

THURSDAY

After seeing to your last client of the day, you make your way home through the now-bitter winds of British weather, making you tug your jacket a little tighter than usual. The chill has you thinking about how you're going to warm yourself up when you get home: maybe a hot chocolate, or a warm bath with some candles lit, maybe bring out the cosy throw you've had stacked away over the summer. Among the many things that race through your mind, one little devious thought plagues your mind most of all.

You could do with someone to keep you warm.

As the thought settles in, it rewires your memories to bring up Tom's final gesture as he left his appointment just the other day. It was a moment of warmth you hadn't felt in a while, not just because it - maybe - felt nice, but because Tom's appreciation was so earnest he felt such an urge to express it. There's also the possibility he was just being kind...nevertheless, you both left feeling elated and with the anticipation of seeing each other again. You just hope that when he returns he will bring back that optimism he left with, although knowing Tom, he's picked up this habit of arriving to appointments doleful and feeling even more miserable than before. And suddenly, you're back to square one. It's the one thing that makes you dread going to work.

All things considering, not once have you ever doubted your choice in occupation because, to be honest, you love it. But you accept it's not easy. You have to be aware that there's only so much you can take before it starts debilitating your mind. You always try to find balance in conversation between yourself and the client, however 90% of the time, that balance always leans slightly heavier on the client's side. Sometimes they forget that by bleeding their lives and problems to you, you partially take on their burden and pressure to make them feel better becomes overwhelming at times. Of course your tolerance is considerably higher than most people and you have been trained to deal with such situations, but you too are human.

When you reach home you don't hesitate to indulge in the comfort of your plush sofa, hot chocolate in hand and to allow the warm, flickering glow of the candles suppress the heavy onus of your job. Your desire for relaxation is satisfied, only to be enhanced hours later when you reach your bed, and sleep greets you like an old friend.

Sadly, it loses you just as easily as it found you. Eyes spring open in an instant as your phone rings through the hollows of your home. It's suddenly 4am. Why is your phone making such a racket at this time?

"Hello?" Ragged and unsteady breaths echo from the other side of the call. "Who's this?"

"I'm sorry," croaks the voice, raw from crying you deduce, "I didn't know who else to call."

You rise from bed, heart beating a pace faster when you recognise the voice, or rather, the sobs.

"Tom? Are you okay? What's happened?"

"C-can we talk? Please? I'm sorry if I woke you, and I know it's not really the time...b-but-"

"Hey, hey...it's okay," you coo. For a moment, you compose yourself before responding back. Your hand finds itself attached to your forehead as your mind comes to grips with what's happening, a sigh of exhaustion heaving through your nose. "Where are you?"

"I'm sitting on a bench in Westferry Circus, in Canary Wharf."

"Right stay there, I'm on my way." The words leave you before you even have time to consider them. Are you really going to do this? It's not exactly professional and you didn't pin yourself to be a portable therapist. But then another thought abruptly stops you in your tracks and instantly negates your ambivalence. 'You're not going to do this as this therapist, you're going to do this as his friend!' Quickly you agree to the thought and with a new determination driving your intentions, you race to put yourself together. No matter what time it is, you decide that it's critical you get to Tom as soon as possible. You, of all people, should know the detriments if he's left in such an unstable state of mind for so long.

It seems that your devotion to be a friend over therapist surely has manifested itself tonight. That's why you subconsciously responded so quickly to his needs.

God, you're psycho-analysing yourself now.

You manage to find Tom within half an hour and, like he said, he's sat on his lonesome on a bench just off from Westferry Circus. It isn't the fact that he's by himself that concerns you, it's the fact that the Thames lays nearby; a big body of freezing water so close to a broken man is never reassuring.

Unaware of you, Tom stares up into the ombre of red, orange and yellows as dawn breaks through the horizon. Wordlessly, you place yourself next him and he doesn't move, not so much as flinch at your presence but you know he's acknowledged you being here. You soak in his appearance: blurry, unmoving eyes, dishevelled hair, carelessly dressed. It's not good news. You've never seen him like this before.

The early cold nips at your nose and the tips of your ears but it's not what sends shivers down the full length of your body. The unease of the situation is mostly to blame for that.

Minutes after arriving, you sense that he isn't ready to speak just yet, more that he's finding solace in your presence first, so you feel obligated to comply with his silence. You simply place your hand over his, sharing what's left of your warmth onto his cold hands. Subliminally, you tell him that you're with him, that you're here to help him, that he's not alone anymore and that he has you to confide in. As he always has.

He stares down at your hand atop his before turning to you, face worryingly expressionless for someone who's overrun by his emotions. Nevertheless, you share a small smile and gently squeeze his hand to reassure him.

"How you doin'?" you whisper.

"Survivin'," he responds. You detect a hint of sarcasm laced through his words. A couple of seconds pass by as his words turn to vapour. "I'm sorry," he whispers, eyes drooping down to yours. You shake your head, refusing his apology. Not because you reject it, but because he doesn't need to.

"I'm glad you called actually," you breathe. "Wouldn't want you to go through this yourself." He lowers his eyes, almost dejectedly, but soon glazes over the scenery again. As you watch him you can clearly see the intricacies of the flowing water reflecting in his wildly brown eyes, beguiles you that can't pull yourself away. They're so alluring in dawn's sunrise and it's something you've never really noticed before having only ever seen him in the artificial light of your office, sitting metres apart.

'Seeing someone in a different light' really does have a literal meaning.

"Was it your nightmares-" you start but he cuts off almost immediately.

"Who gives a fuck about my nightmares," he spits, eyebrows knitted together. You've touched a nerve, maybe better to let him explain.

"I do." Again you respond calmly. This time he stays quiet. "Tell me what happened." Let him lead the conversation. He inhales and you prepare to listen, adjusting your body to face more towards him. You're invested in him now, nothing else.

"This isn't about my nightmares," he mutters lowly. "This is about you."

Well...that's not what you were expecting.

"Me?"

"Mhm," he purses his lips together, finding that once again he's directed his attention to his hands, wringing them together. What could this possibly have to do with you? Your mind produces nothing that could help with your dilemma. Last time you checked, you were on good terms with Tom. What could've possibly gone so wrong between then and now? It's actually making you slightly panicked; you don't want things to be bad between you and him.

"I know I was supposed to be seeing you on Tuesday, but this couldn't wait." He takes a moment to compose himself. Now he's got those brown eyes pinned on you. "I had everything planned, I knew what to do and what to say. I had everything planned."

"What do you mean? Had what planned?"

"I was...I was actually going to ask you out on date," he stutters. Your stomach flips inside you and shock keeps your wide eyes motionless. "But everything was just going so wrong. I couldn't even keep the fucking flowers alive," he whimpers, on the verge of tears. Your heart sinks hearing the hopelessness in his wavering voice. It's not fair he can't catch a break, the man does so much to make everyone else around him feel at home but yet he's still so lost himself.

"You got me flowers?" You don't understand that out of everything he's just confessed to you, that's the only thing your mind can respond to. There's probably something to analyse from that, but now's not the time.

He nods his head with an innocence that you can only sympathise with.

"I was so unbearably nervous. I didn't even know if you would say yes. I mean, you're my therapist; you know out of everyone how fucked up I am, why would you even consider it? And I kept convincing myself that you would reject me and...well, my nightmares latched onto that possibility, I suppose, and I woke up in a complete panic. I was freaking out and didn't know what to do so then-"

"Then you phoned me." He nods. In between conversation, you pick up on his thumb trailing over your hand as he cocoons it in his own.

"I didn't think, I just...did. I just needed to know...what you would say."

He needed reassurance.

You give a brief moment to yourself thinking about what you would've said if the events had turned out the way Tom had described. What would you have said? You imagine him standing there with a fistful of flowers, a cheesy grin plastered on his face and that same confident sparkle in his eyes that you've seen once before. You then imagine yourself, laughing, graciously taking the flowers and accepting him. You always have accepted him. There's not a reason why you wouldn't.

It's just as much as a revelation for you as it is for him. You've been so slow, but you realise now. Looking back on things, you don't understand why it wasn't so obvious before. The constant excitement and anticipation of each appointment. The sheer interest and admiration for his mannerisms; the way he speaks, the way he expresses himself as he divulges his life to you. The flutter of warmth when he hugged you and when you yearned for it again in the absence of it. It's all adding up now. You know exactly what you would've said.

You heave a sigh, simultaneously resting your head upon Tom's shoulder, still rigid. With a coy smile playing on your lips, you loop your arm around his, bringing your hand to reclaim its spot on top of his.

"Do you remember the last time we met up, you asked me what I thought of you?"

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"And do you remember that piece of paper I told you to keep? The one with all the words?"

He sighs, he knows where you're going with this. "Yes."

"And I said those words were honestly what I thought of you?"

"Yes..."

"Just off the top of your head, can you remember any of them?" Your smiles getting wider the more Tom realises why his worrying is for nothing. Why his paranoia about you rejecting him was needless. All he had to do was look at that reminder because his answer was there all along. It's the main reason why you asked him to keep it, that in a moment of need, he would have something to bring him back to stability.

"Erm...was 'total idiot' on there somewhere?"

"Nope. But I can tell you talented was on there. So was intelligent, and caring, and charming, and-"

"Okay, okay, I get it," he half chuckles. The low rumble is welcoming to your ears.

"I've known you for the last seven years so that makes me the first person to say that you're not fucked up in the slightest, so get that out your head. And...hey," you lift your hand to tilt his chin towards you. "I'm free tomorrow night, why don't we go for some dinner?"

He perks a smile bigger than you've ever seen before, eyes sparkling once again. You don't know whether it's your words or the chill of the early morning that's responsible for the pink glow on his cheeks. Either way, you can't help but adore it partnered with his smile.

"Yeah, that-that sounds great." A subtle, airy chuckle breaks through his words and it's the most endearing thing you can hear, even in the crisp, peaceful emptiness that half 4 in the morning brings.

"On one condition," you add.

“Anything."

"Promise me you'll hang up that piece of paper I gave you. Somewhere where you can clearly see it, because as much as I like seeing you and spending time with you Tom, I also like sleeping in my bed." You give a small laugh as the measly 4 hours sleep you managed to fit in catches up on you, and even as you're indulging in the comfort of Tom's shoulder, your eyes aren't getting any less heavier.

Tom sniggers above you, turning his head and placing a gentle, apologetic kiss to your forehead before resting his head beside yours.