Chapter 6 006. Therapy Talk

I was tired of pretending everything was okay.

It had been two weeks since Harryson came back home, but it still felt like I was living with a stranger. He looked like my husband, sounded like him too, but something was off. I couldn't point to just one thing. It was little things-like how he stood too still when he thought no one was watching, or how he smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. It gave me this weird ache in my chest, like I was grieving someone who was still alive.

And maybe I was.

That morning, after he left for work, I sat alone at the kitchen table, stirring a cold cup of coffee. I hadn't taken a sip. I wasn't even sure why I made it. Habit, maybe. Or comfort. But neither were doing me much good lately.

I picked up my phone and scrolled to the number I'd saved last week but hadn't dared call.

Dr. Emmett Rayburn.

Harryson's primary doctor. The man who had stood beside me in that cold hospital hallway, telling me Harryson was alive, that he had some memory gaps, but he'd be okay.

I wasn't so sure about that anymore.

I called and asked if I could stop by, said I needed to talk. He hesitated at first, probably wondering if he should even be talking to me without Harryson's consent. But I think he could hear it in my voice-the desperation. He said I could come by at noon.

I barely noticed the drive. The roads blurred under my tires. By the time I parked outside the clinic, I had rehearsed what I was going to say at least ten times in my head.

Dr. Rayburn's office was the same as I remembered-too white, too cold. Like it was trying hard to be calming but ended up feeling more like a lab. The receptionist gave me a tight smile and told me to wait. I did, picking at my thumbnail, jumping every time the door creaked open.

Finally, he came out and waved me in.

"Leona," he said, like he was surprised to see me in person. "You doing okay?"

No. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... I needed to talk about Harryson."

He gestured to a chair, and we both sat. I could feel the nerves bubbling in my stomach. I took a breath and dove in.

"He's different," I said. "I know he went through something traumatic. I get that. But... it's more than that. He feels... off. He's quiet, distant. Sometimes I catch him just... staring. At nothing. And he forgot how I like my coffee, Doctor. He's never done that. Not once."

Dr. Rayburn nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. He didn't look surprised.

"You're not imagining it," he said softly. "The kind of accident Harryson had-high impact, possible concussion, trauma-it's not uncommon for patients to come out of it... changed."

"Changed how?"

He hesitated. That alone made my heart race.

"Sometimes," he said carefully, "they experience memory issues, personality shifts, even changes in how they process emotions or interact socially. It's like their brain rewires things in a different order. And not always in ways we fully understand."

I blinked. "So what does that mean for Harryson?"

"It means the man you knew might not come back all the way. Or... he might. It just takes time. But based on what you're saying, it could be deeper trauma-maybe psychological damage that's not immediately obvious."

I looked down at my hands. My wedding ring sparkled under the clinic light, and for a second, I hated it. Not the ring. Just what it reminded me of. The promises. The comfort. The man who kissed my forehead every morning and left love notes on the fridge.

"Can I do anything?" I asked. "Help him recover or... I don't know... guide him back?"

Dr. Rayburn's eyes softened.

"Honestly, Leona? You're already doing a lot. Just being there. But I will say this-keep paying attention. If he starts to show signs of confusion, aggression, emotional flatness, or even paranoia... don't ignore it. Those could be signs of something more serious. Post-traumatic stress. Dissociation. Or worse."

"Worse?"

He didn't answer. That scared me more than if he had.

"Shouldn't he talk to someone?" I pushed. "Like a therapist?"

Dr. Rayburn gave a small sigh. "I mentioned that when he was still under our care. He wasn't very open to it."

"He's still not," I muttered. "Said it's a waste of money. Said he just needs time."

"Some men hear 'therapy' and think it means weakness," the doctor said. "But if he keeps refusing and the signs grow worse, it's important you put your safety first."

"My safety?" I repeated.

"I don't mean to alarm you. But trauma can manifest in ways we don't expect. He might not hurt you-ever-but if he starts acting in ways that make you feel uncomfortable, trust that feeling."

I swallowed hard.

"I'm not saying he's dangerous," he added. "Just... unpredictable. And unpredictability, when tied to trauma, can become unstable. You've seen the changes. That intuition you're having? Don't brush it aside."

I nodded, even though my heart was hammering.

After the appointment, I sat in the car for a long time, staring at the dashboard. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. My chest just felt tight, like someone had tied a rope around my ribs.

When I finally drove home, I found Harryson sitting on the couch, reading the paper like nothing in the world was wrong.

"Hey babe," he said with a smile.

That smile. It always looked right, but now it felt wrong. Too wide. Too stiff. Like he was copying how a smile should look instead of just... smiling.

"Hey," I said back, hanging my coat.

"Where were you?" he asked.

I froze for just a second too long. "Went to see a friend. Needed to clear my head."

He nodded slowly and folded the paper. "Everything okay?"

No. "Yeah. Just been thinking a lot lately."

"About?"

"You," I whispered.

He stood up and came over, wrapping his arms around me. His hands were warm, steady. But they didn't feel like Harryson's. Not quite.

"You don't have to worry about me, Leo," he murmured. "I'm healing. Just need some time, that's all."

I wanted to believe him. I really, really did.

But I kept thinking about what the doctor said. About psychological shifts. About safety. About unpredictability.

And I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't the only one pretending anymore.

That night, I watched Harryson sleep from the corner of the bed. His face looked calm, peaceful even. But I wondered-what was going on behind those closed eyes? Who was he now?

And more importantly... what was he hiding?