Mine & Yours

"Most people think love is about compromise. They're wrong-it's about control, and I'm very good at it." I said and smiled to myself as William shook my hand as he set to leave my office. "Well, it looks like you've survived another session without me giving you too much homework. But don't worry-I'll make sure to assign some extra self-reflection next time... just kidding, sort of," I said, stretching out for a handshake. He laughed wholeheartedly as he replied; "I've been a good student after-all.

Perhaps my graduation is near." His laugh was like sunlight cutting through storm clouds-rare, fleeting, and something I would do anything to possess.

I tried not to stare at him too much as he walked out of my office, down the stairwell and into the busy streets. I stood at the window and watched as he hailed down a cab and got into it. He didn't even look up to see if I was watching him. For a moment, I felt bad. I sat back in my chair as I thought. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't paying that kind of attention to me. He would be doing way more than that; soon enough.

I picked up my phone and opened TikTok. I scrolled past a few videos-mindless dances, lip-syncing, the usual noise-and then I saw her post. Whitney. The best friend. The enabler. She was laughing in the video, holding a glass of wine, her perfectly manicured nails wrapped around the stem like it was a trophy for surviving another day of mediocrity. Her caption read: "Cheers to fathers who teach us how NOT to love!" A joke, of course, but one that cut deeper than she realized.

Whitney always knew how to twist the knife without getting blood on her hands. She was the kind of friend who turned pain into punchlines, encouraging poor, broken William to laugh at his wounds instead of healing them. A therapist's nightmare disguised as a support system. But Whitney isn't just a friend; she's a mirror William doesn't know he is looking into. The same daddy issues, the same need for validation wrapped in faux independence. They bond over their shared disdain for absent fathers while clinging desperately to partners who remind them of them.

I watch Whitney's face closely in the video-her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It never does. She's hiding something beneath that glossy exterior, something darker. Maybe she's not just enabling William; maybe she's feeding off her pain, thriving on it like a parasite disguised as a confidante. My mind flashes back at William's earlier today-his words echo in my mind: "Whit says I should just forget about him." Forget? No, Whit doesn't want William to forget anything. She wants William to stay broken because broken people are easier to control.

I tap on Whitney's profile and start scrolling through her posts. Each one is a breadcrumb leading me deeper into her psyche-a curated gallery of faux empowerment and subtle digs at William's insecurities. And then I see it: a photo from last week, Whitney and William at brunch, arms draped around each other like blood siblings. The caption reads: "Some people don't need dads when they have friends like me." Manipulation disguised as love-it's almost poetic.

Whitney thinks she's untouchable, but she doesn't realize how closely I'm watching. For William's sake, of course. Someone has to protect her from friends like Emily-the kind who smile while they sharpen their knives.

***

Yes. People have perfect families. The types that gather at the dining table every evening, plates full, stories flowing. They talk about their days-the good, the bad, the silly. No phones, no distractions. Just eye contact, laughter, and the comfort of knowing someone cares.

The parents know when to listen and when to offer advice. The kids joke around but still ask how each other did on their tests. There's always a favorite dish on the table, and always enough. Even when things go wrong, they find a way back to each other. The kind of scene that smells like home-like roasted chicken, warm bread, and safety.

I didn't have that. Not really. I'd tell myself it wasn't a big deal, that family dinners were just a cliché anyway. Dinner for me was usually quiet. Sometimes just me and a reheated plate, maybe a show playing in the background. But it never felt sad. It was just normal. I think that kind of silence taught me to pay attention-to little things, to emotions that didn't always get spoken out loud.

Maybe that's why I ended up studying psychology. I wanted to understand people-what they said, what they didn't, and all the messy stuff in between. I never needed the picture-perfect family. I just wanted to know how it all works.

***

The train hissed to a stop like it was tired too, and I stepped out into the station where the lights buzzed overhead, always just a little too bright. The platform was mostly empty-just a few people scattered around, heads down, walking like they had somewhere more important to be.

My footsteps echoed as I moved toward the stairs, the sound of them weirdly loud in the stillness. A gust of warm subway air followed me up, thick and stale, carrying that familiar underground smell-dirt, metal, something slightly burnt.

The city above was unusually quiet. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting long shadows that seemed detached from their sources. I passed shuttered shops, a flickering neon sign, and a guy leaning against a wall smoking, not looking at anyone.

From my AirPods was playing Ordinary by Alex Warren. I had been following him and his wife's love story on TikTok. It was very cute. I hope to have something like that. I want something like that. But with William. My mind wandered to how we met.

I first saw William on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where the city feels like it's drowning in its own melancholy. He was sitting alone at the corner table of a café I'd wandered into, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. His eyes were fixed on a book-"The Stranger by Albert Camus" I think-and his brow furrowed in that way people do when they're reading something that feels too close to home.

I didn't approach him, of course. That would've been too obvious, too desperate. Instead, I watched him from my seat by the window, pretending to scroll through my phone while stealing glances at his every move. There was something about him-the way he held himself, like he was carrying the weight of something he couldn't quite name-that drew me in. It wasn't attraction, not exactly. It was curiosity. A need to understand him, to unravel whatever it was that made him look so utterly lost.

When he left the café, I followed-at a distance, naturally. He walked with his head down, shoulders hunched against the rain, and I couldn't help but wonder what kind of thoughts were swirling around in his mind. Did he even notice the world around him? Or was he too caught up in whatever storm was raging inside?

It wasn't difficult to find out more about him after that. A name overheard when he greeted the security guard at the library. A quick search on social media. His profile was sparse-just a handful of photos and vague captions-but it was enough to piece together the basics. He worked in marketing, lived alone in a modest apartment downtown, and had a penchant for quoting Huey from "Boondocks" in his posts. I found that really funny.

I told myself it was harmless, this quiet observation from afar. After all, isn't everyone guilty of scrolling through strangers' profiles now and then? But as the days turned into weeks and my curiosity grew into something sharper, something hungrier, I began to realize that this wasn't just idle interest anymore. It was something else entirely.

The first time I engineered an encounter with William felt like fate-or at least that's what I told myself afterward. I "accidentally" bumped into him at a library we both frequented, knocking over a stack of books as I apologized profusely for my clumsiness. He laughed-an easy, genuine laugh that made my heart race-and helped me pick them up.

"I've seen you here before," he said casually as we straightened the pile together.

"Have you?" I replied with feigned surprise, though I could recall every instance we'd been in the same place at the same time.

From there, it wasn't difficult to insert myself into his life bit by bit-a shared interest here, a coincidental meeting there-until he began to see me as someone familiar. Someone safe.

What William doesn't know-what he can never know-is how much effort went into every moment we've shared since then. The hours spent studying his habits, anticipating his movements, crafting conversations that felt spontaneous but were anything but. To him, our connection is serendipity; to me, it's strategy.

And now here we are: therapist and patient, bound together by sessions that feel more like chess matches than therapy. He thinks I'm helping him heal; I think I'm helping him see who he truly is-or who he could be-with me by his side.

But even as I sit here replaying our last conversation in my mind-the way his laugh lit up my office like sunlight-I can't shake the feeling that this isn't enough anymore. Watching from afar was satisfying once; orchestrating chance encounters felt thrilling for a time; but now? Now I want more.

I want all of him.

And soon enough, he'll give it to me-whether he realizes it or not.

The walk home felt longer than it should've; maybe because I was deep in my meet cute story. Just a few blocks, but every window I passed felt like a little world I wasn't part of-families eating dinner, someone laughing at a screen, the clatter of cutlery. That soft, blurry kind of life that feels far away even when it's right in front of you.

I got to my building, punched in the code, and climbed the stairs to my apartment. It was dark inside. I didn't turn on the lights right away-just stood there for a second, letting the silence press in a little.

It wasn't bad; it simply was.