Maybe the mind is just a lantern, swinging on some invisible thread, casting light on shapes it half-remembers and half-invents so the heart won’t go dark. Maybe this man, with his crooked smile and watch set a few seconds faster, is far less a person and more an idea the universe borrowed from a dozen tiny places: a character in a book, a stranger in a café, a line from a song you once hummed without knowing why. And maybe that’s alright.
“Get out, get out of my head,” she almost whispered into the pillow, the words breaking somewhere between plea and command.
“Why do you want him to get out?” the therapist asked gently, voice a careful weight that didn’t disturb the stillness. She leaned forward just a fraction, the faintest smile softening her eyes. “There isn’t anything to be scared of, just a flicker of your imagination shining brighter on a Wednesday, as long as we can talk about it.”
The room exhaled calm. White walls softened by amber lamplight. A low bookshelf with a scatter of paperbacks and a single rain-colored vase. A muted blue sofa she sank into, its cushions slumping kindly around her shoulders. The air hummed faintly with white lavender, the kind of scent that coaxed your guard down before you realized it and there you were in a field in Provence. On the far wall, a coral-and-indigo abstract leaned against the paint as though still undecided about permanence.
“But that’s it, right? How do I explain this to you?” she hesitated, eyes darting briefly to the window before pulling back to the safety of the floor. “I don’t speak from fear but from the need to be aware,” she kept speaking, breath catching halfway. “It’s oddly specific, this ‘fragment’ my reaction not only new but also uncanny, an absolutely new sentiment of the heart. My mind, in traces, in every fleeting moment, thinks of him; finds glimpses of him, but not exactly around.. like when you walk into a space and feel like he just left, that kind of feeling, you know?” Her voice thinned, then stopped, as if the silence might finish the sentence for her.
“Could it be obsession, or a polished manner of infatuation?” the therapist tilted her head, one brow lifting slightly, not judgmental but curious, a pen hovering somewhere midair.
“Isn’t there supposed to be something in existence for me to develop infatuation?” she shot back, a sudden grin breaking through like a small rebellion. “Otherwise I don’t see it any different from imagining I have a date with Bernard Black on that very Wednesday you mentioned about.” Her smile flickered, fragile but proud of its own humor.
“Well, fair enough.” A small chuckle warmed the therapist’s otherwise even tone. “What makes this fragment or ‘him’ so bothersome? What makes it so hard?”
“The specifications.” She looked up, eyes glassy but alive. “And sometimes.. the oddities.” Her hands floated up for a second, palms opening as if trying to hold the invisible shape of this imagined man.
“Would you care to expand?”
“It’s not like I dream of him, doc,” she said, voice soft but urgent now, a pulse underneath. “It’s more like the hum of a song you don’t hate, can’t bring yourself to hate, but keep obsessing over, not knowing its name in your most private moments.” Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug that almost broke into laughter but didn’t.
“The mind tends to orient itself around unresolved feelings: admitted or not, so maybe you're reiterating something or someone in reality you haven't had the chance to decode the way you generally would?” the therapist said, tapping the pen once against her notebook. “I do hope it’s a good song, though.” Her lips quirked at the edges, conspiratorial for just a beat.
“Well.. it’s alright, the song I mean. And no, I haven't been able to get a "read" on him because he doesn't exist?” A faint sigh slipped from her chest, half surrender, half confession. “It’s the particulars, the details. This mark, I can’t really tell from what, on his back, on the left, just a little below the shoulder blade. He’s always complaining about forgetting to cut his nails, then complaining about cutting them too short out of overcompensation.” Her hands gestured in the air, like trimming invisible edges. “He has this crookedness to his smile on the right. He has to sleep on the right side of the bed and keep his watch next to him, an odd watch, too, ticks with a faint hum and is set a few seconds faster because he likes it that way. For some reason. He deliberately tells people the lesser preferred option for his coffee because he finds that kind of detail too intimate. He is someone who takes pride in locking their Kindle or makes his Goodreads private because again, that kinda detail is extremely intimate. You might get a peep into his chats but what book he’s reading? Guards that information like it’s got military secrets. He fidgets with the right side of his spectacles with the left thumb instead of fidgeting out in the open, calls it private tactics. He needs the right-most seat for some reason when watching a game. He doesn’t care for punctuation but will take the time to manually set uppercase when using someone’s name, like he’s writing it into his will.” She exhaled, this time with a short, almost embarrassed laugh, shoulders slumping in surrender. “I could go on, but you get the hang of it, I’m sure.”
“Well, two things, he mark is an oddly specific detail.” The therapist’s voice was gentle but threaded with intrigue now. “Have your thoughts traced it multiple times? And.. what kind of coffee does he really like?”
“I don’t know how he got it, but I know its there. And he what he really likes is a good ol’ school cappuccino in takeaway kinda mugs, it’s his thing, i guess” but what I really wanna know is "How do I make it go away?"
“Why do you want to make it go away?”
“I don’t like someone I’m 100% sure is a mix of things I’ve seen on screen.” She laughed once; sharp, nervous and shook her head. “Makes me sound like a 16-year-old with a first crush who can’t stop gushing… only now I can’t do the real adult stuff.”
“I’d suggest you sleep on it… and let him be.” The therapist closed the notebook softly, the sound almost like a sigh joining the room.
But doc, what if he's in my veins, and I can’t get him out?
Get out, get the fuck out of my head.
When she stepped back out of the lavender-scented room, the night felt different , softer at the edges, as though it knew a secret and was willing to keep it. The imagined man didn’t disappear, but he stopped pressing against her ribs quite so hard; he drifted to the back of her mind like a song you don’t know the words to but hum anyway.
After all, some thoughts don’t need to become flesh and blood; some simply arrive to remind you that wonder still visits, and that curiosity hasn’t gone quiet.
Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KZuZF01FA
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