Psychological fragments

Sunlight, like fine gold dust, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, slanting across the beige sofa and outlining its golden contours. Outside, the new buds of the sycamore trees swayed gently in the breeze, their tender green bringing life to the tranquil consultation room. On the bookshelf, my two books—"Listening" and "The Handbook of Psychological Counseling"—stood side by side, their gold lettering shimmering in the sunlight. I sat on the armchair by the window, a cup of tea, long since cooled, sitting quietly on the coffee table before me, its aroma gone, leaving only faint watermarks.

Lin Nian slowly stood up from the sofa opposite her, her movements carrying a subtle hesitation.

"That's all for today," I said in a professionally gentle tone, with a barely perceptible concern in my voice. "When you get back, remember to record the specific times of your emotional fluctuations each day, as we agreed before, and bring them to us next week so we can analyze them together."

She nodded slightly, remaining silent. This was her fourth visit, and I had grown accustomed to her taciturn nature. During our initial consultation, her main symptoms were "anxiety, insomnia, and a constant feeling of being watched." Typical symptoms of anxiety disorder. I asked her if there was a specific reason, but she simply shook her head. I pressed her further, asking how long this had been going on, and she replied, "A long time ago, I can't remember." When I asked if she had ever sought help from a therapist, she paused for a few seconds, then whispered, "A few."

That was the first time I saw her with that indescribable expression—as if she wanted to say something, yet also as if she knew it would be futile. As a therapist, I've seen that expression far too often. People come to me with their own stories, but before they even open their mouths, many have already given up hope of being understood.

Lin Nian's steps halted at the door. Her hand lightly touched the doorknob, yet seemed held back by an invisible force. She slowly turned around, and in that instant, I caught her gaze. In previous consultations, her eyes had always been unfocused, as if lost in a fog I couldn't reach. But now, her gaze was focused, sharp as a knife, piercing my eyes.

"Dr. Shen," her voice was low and weak, as if she were worried about being overheard, "please be careful."

I was speechless for a moment.

Without waiting for my reply, she gently pushed open the door, the canvas bag lightly touching the doorframe with a dull thud. I watched the door slowly close, finally shutting gently with a soft "click" as the spring pushed it shut.

careful?

I sat quietly for a moment, trying to clear my mind, but I was still completely confused. Perhaps it was her own anxiety, perhaps it was her concern for me, or perhaps it was just a casual reminder. As a psychologist, I'm used to all sorts of inexplicable words and have learned not to take every word to heart.

I stood up, walked to my desk, sat down, opened Lin Nian's consultation record book, and wrote on the last page:

The client's mood is stable; the fourth consultation has concluded. Continued treatment is recommended, with a focus on improving sleep quality and identifying the root causes of anxiety.

After finishing taking notes, I put the notebook back in the drawer and glanced at the time in the lower right corner of the computer screen: 16:37.

I shut down my computer, grabbed my coat, and prepared to leave. Walking to the window, I habitually looked down. The clinic was on the fifth floor of an old office building, below which ran a one-way street lined with swaying plane trees. It was rush hour, cars were flowing like a river, and pedestrians hurried by. I saw Lin Nian; she was carrying that faded canvas bag, walking east along the sidewalk. After a few steps, she stopped and looked back up at the building.

I was too far away to see her expression clearly, but I could feel her gaze—she was looking out my window.

Then, she turned around and disappeared into the crowd.

I didn't know at the time that it would be the last time I saw her leave alive.

I met Lin Nian for the first time on a Thursday afternoon three weeks ago.

She arrived five minutes early, and when Xiao Zhou at the front desk led her in, I was busy organizing the previous consultation record. The moment I looked up, my first impression was: ordinary and unremarkable.

Too ordinary.

Medium build, neither fat nor thin. She wore a gray sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, and white sneakers that were already yellowed. Her hair was simply tied back, with slightly long bangs that covered half of her eyebrows. Her features were regular, but nothing particularly striking. A woman like this, once blended into a crowd, would disappear in the blink of an eye.

She carried that canvas bag, and I later discovered that she carried the same bag every time she visited, never changing it.

"Please sit down," I said, pointing to the sofa.

She sat down, hands on her knees, back ramrod straight. It was a defensive posture, revealing her inner tension. But her face was unusually calm, even somewhat blank.

"Lin Nian?" I flipped through the appointment slip Xiao Zhou handed me. "Is this your first time here?"

"Mmm." Her voice was faint, and I had to lean forward slightly to hear her.

Have you seen a psychologist before?

She paused for a moment: "I've seen a few."

How many have I looked at? Under the dim light, I flipped through her profile: 34 years old, unmarried, freelancer, graphic designer, lived alone for three years. No family history of mental illness, no record of major physical illness, non-smoker, occasional light drinker. This information was like pieces of a puzzle, waiting to be pieced together into a complete picture.

"You mentioned you haven't been sleeping well lately?" I asked softly, trying not to break the quiet atmosphere.

She nodded, her voice low and hoarse: "Yes, I have trouble falling asleep. Sometimes, even when I do fall asleep, I wake up suddenly, and then I'm wide awake."

"How long did this last?" I continued to inquire, my pen tip dancing lightly on the paper.

"It's been a long time." She paused for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly. "About a year or two. It seems to have gotten worse recently."

"Is there a specific reason? Work pressure? Relationship problems? Or something else?" My question was like throwing a stone to test the waters, hoping to stir up some ripples in her heart.

She was silent for a few seconds, then gently shook her head, her hair shimmering slightly in the light: "I don't know. I just can't fall asleep."

This kind of answer is not uncommon. Many people are aware of their anxieties but are unwilling to talk about them. I didn't press further, but instead inquired about her sleep habits, eating habits, and daily activities. Her answers were concise and precise, like her design work, without any superfluous lines.

The forty-minute consultation flew by. At the end, as usual, I gave advice: keep a sleep diary, practice relaxation techniques before bed, and if you'd like, we can discuss your recent life in more depth next time.

She stood up and walked towards the door, but stopped just before stepping out.

"Um," her voice hesitated slightly, her gaze passing over me and settling on something behind me, "is it the archives?"

I followed her gaze and saw that my consultation room was a suite; the outer room was the consultation room, and the inner room was my office. At the back of the office, there was a door with a label that read "Archives Room".

"Yes," I replied calmly, "the patient files are kept there."

She nodded slightly, said nothing more, and pushed open the door to leave. I didn't think much of it at the time; it's not surprising that patients are curious about the layout of a mental health clinic. But looking back, the way she looked at that door was completely different from everything else.

It was a deep and focused gaze, as if it could penetrate the door and reveal the secrets within.