BROKEN VOWS:- FALLING FOR MY MARRIAGE COUNSELOR

LILLIAN     The receptionist was saying something, but her voice was a dull hum as I froze at the threshold of the office. My body locked in as my hands gripped to my purse tightly, hearth jackhammering like it wanted out of my chest.    Him.    He was the last person I expected to see in this room, in this building, in this role of all things.    The marriage counselor.    My throat went dry, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs, heat flooding me in an instant. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until the edges of my vision blurred, and still, I couldn't move; every one of my muscles had gone stiff, like I might snap in half if I moved an inch.    "Babe?" Joe's voice cut through the ringing in my head, sharp with irritation. "What the hell are you doing? Sit down ."    I blinked, yanked out of my spiraling thoughts, and managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. My legs felt stiff as I forced them forward, each step heavier than the last.     The office smelled faintly of cedar mixed with the smell of the ocean, the kind of natural scent meant to put one's mind at ease. My body, though, was screaming the opposite.      I lowered myself onto the far end of the three-seater sofa, careful to leave little space between Joe and me, careful not to look directly at the man now sitting across from us. But it didn't matter. His presence pressed on me like the weight in my chest, suffocating and impossible to ignore.     He sat in a large mahogany armchair five feet away, posture too composed, notebook easily balanced in one hand. His other hand held a pen, but I couldn't focus because my eyes betrayed me, flicking to his jaw-lost in the way it flexed when he swallowed.    God, Lillian, get a grip on yourself.     "You okay?" Joe asked, eyebrows pulling tight as he studied me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."    If only he knew.    "I'm fine," I said quickly, my voice higher than I wanted. I tugged my sleeve down, twisting the fabric around my finger until it burned.    "Wait a second," Joe said suddenly, making my stomach clench. He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing on the man across from us. "I remember you from the family dinner two weeks ago. Ronan, right?"     I looked at the counselor, but his face gave nothing away.     "Yes," he said.     Joe chuckled under his breath. "What a coincidence," Joe muttered, settling back.    Ronan. The sound of his name scraped through my head, raw and unwelcome. I wouldn't say it. In my head, he was safer as the counselor, nothing more.    The counselor cleared his throat, giving a short nod. "Welcome. Since this is your first session, we'll keep it simple," he said, his tone professional, cool.     Simple? Nothing about this was simple.    "Tell me," he continued, gaze flicking between us like we were just another couple, another set of problems to fix. "What brought you both here today?"    I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, waiting and hoping Joe would speak first. He did.     His laugh was short, bitter. "We're here because my wife has this ridiculous idea in her head about divorce." He turns sharply towards me, his knee bumping mine, and his voice hardened. "I figured a professional could talk some sense into her."    Heat crawled up my neck. The words stung, not because they were new but because he said them so easily, like he was a news reporter. My hands twisted harder, nails digging into my palm.     For a fraction of a second, I saw it-the way the counselor's jaw tightened, the faint tic near his temple. His pen pressed harder into the pad, the tiniest shift, but my chest ached at the familiarity of it. He didn't like what he heard. Or maybe I was imagining it.    Maybe I wanted to imagine it.    "Divorce is a strong word," the counselor said finally, his tone even and unreadable. "Why do you feel that way?"     Joe scoffed. "Why? Because she obviously doesn't know what she wants. She thinks leaving will solve her problems, but she doesn't realize what she's throwing away."    His knee pressed into mine again, harder this time, like a warning, making my throat lock up.      I kept my eyes down, studying the ridges of my knuckles and my fresh red nail polish. Don't look at him. Don't. But my gaze betrayed me again, skimming up just enough to catch the counselors watching me-no, assessing me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.    His eyes slid away when Joe leaned back, arms crossing like he'd won something.    "Do you agree with that?" The counselor asked me, voice softer now, directed only at me.    My mouth opened, then shut. I forced words out, each one shaky. "I think... I think marriage shouldn't feel like a battlefield every day."    The air shifted. Joe exhaled sharply, irritation snapping off him like sparks. "See? Drama. Always drama."    Something flickered in the counselor's expression. His pen stilled. For a heartbeat too long, his gaze stayed on me, like he was holding back words he had no right to say in this room.    But it was gone. He nodded, scribbling something down. "What's important is that both of your feelings are heard in this space."     I tried to anchor myself, but my body betrayed me, foot bouncing, chest tight, the urge to flee shimmering in my veins. Joe kept talking, his voice filling every corner of the office. He listed his complaints like he was reading through a grocery list, each word laced with frustration.    She doesn't listen.    She doesn't try.    She doesn't care.    I winced, wanting to say something, but it felt like my lips were sealed together. And through it all, the counselor sat steady, pen scribbling, gaze flickering between us. But I noticed. I noticed the way his jaw ticked when the words got cruel, the way his eyes raked over me, quick, sharp, then gone.    Delusional, I told myself. That's all it is. I can't afford to think otherwise.    "Do you think counseling will change her mind?" The counselor asked finally, directing it to Joe.    "It's better," Joe muttered. "Otherwise, me paying $500 per hour is going to be a waste of time."    I rolled my eyes, is he being for real? He literally suggested this and is here complaining about the price like he doesn't have a fucking trust fund and makes a lot of money every year.     The counselor leaned back, his expression unreadable now, pen resting against his lips. His eyes cut to mine-just for a second, just enough to make my chest seize.    He looked at me like I was transparent, like he could see all my dirty little secrets, like the secrets I bury are the reflection of the burdens I carried.    The session wrapped up not long after, but the tension didn't ease. Not in my muscles not in my lungs. We stood, Joe already halfway to the door, and I lingered only a moment, trying to collect myself together.    "Running doesn't erase the past."    My stomach dropped. I fumbled with the strap of my bag, my palm damp with sweat.     I forced my legs to move. But the words 'you're so fucked' echoed, louder and louder, long after the door shut behind me.