Who ever said you got to lie down on a couch? They lied. Maybe they were never in my position. I gawkily walk into the room and, not wanting to communicate in any way, sink into the chair opposite her, observing the faded floral design. My knobby knees face her. I keep my gaze on the floor, my clammy hands clasped, effectively disregarding any manners I had. Tick, tock. She says nothing, yet I can feel the steady pressure of her eyes on me. My heart beats far too loud. Swallowing, I raise my eyes towards her face slowly, apprehensive of what I will see. She watches me with a calculating look on her face. As I take in her face, I see her clear, crystalline eyes take in my overcast, lifeless ones. Her expression twists--pity? sorrow?--and she looks sad for a moment before her professional skills take over and mask her feelings. Gently, tentatively, she places her hand on my knee. I visibly flinch at her touch, but only look to the floor with such intensity one might imagine that knowledge of its pattern would free me from the burden encasing my mind. I am able to take in a coffee stain on the rug before I hear her whisper "Zoe? You're going to be okay." I look into her face, unbelieving, but something moves inside me. I let the tears pour, feeling something for the first time in months--hope.