I crawled out of bed and shot a glance at the clock. 7:11 AM. What did that old woman want at this time?
"Querida! Wake up!"
Oh no, the use of my full name. Not good news. I hestitantly dragged my feet down the staircase.
"What is it, mother? Please realize that it's 7 in the morning! Some of us were getting the sleep we need, you know."
I brushed the stray hair from my face and stood infront of her.
"Your first day with Dr. Christopher! Please do not be late, Querida."
Good Lord, who is she kidding?
"Mom, our therapy session starts at 8.30."
"I know, sweetie, but I'm leaving for work soon. You better hurry up. 20 minutes, tops. And we can get breakfast at Jerry's too."
I rolled my eyes and washed up a bit. A little bit of apple shampoo can do. Who wouldn't want a good first impression? I lazily picked out a pair of denim shorts and a black t-shirt and blow-dried my hair.
"Don't forget your medicine and keys, honey!" My dad called out.

--

"Good luck, honey. Be sure to call when you're done and I'll pick you up." I ignored the over-protective-mom remark and slammed the car door behind me. The building was covered with a fresh coat of paint and looked brand new. I walked inside, the automatic sliding doors making a loud squeaking sound. I flashed a smile at the receptionist and asked for directions toward Dr. Christopher's office.
"Take the lift or stairs to level two, whichever one you prefer, and walk all the way to your left. It's at the far end." She answered politely and grinned from ear to ear at me. I said my thanks and anxiously followed her instructions.

An overwhelming wash of excitement shook me awake. What will he look like? How old is he? Is he one of those big-moustache old uncles? No, no. That's not gonna make me feel any better. Worse, actually. I braced my coward self and twisted the doorknob. Ew, greasy. I blinked several times at the bright lights that shone directly onto me. "Um, Dr. Christopher? It's Querida Maxwell." I tried not to look too eager and opened my eyes to a man sitting in a movable chair.

Oh God.

Bright blue eyes and brunette hair greeted me in the office. "Dr.. Christopher?"
"Oh yes! Please please, come in." I self-conciously made up my mind to take a seat at the other side of the desk. If I took the seat at the far end of the room, it might give an impression that I was knowledgably contagious. How will I concentrate with the sight of beautiful complex blue eyes and smooth brown hair infront of me?
"How old are you again?"
"18. Technically 1 7 but turning 18 this April."
"Oh, interesting." He nodded continously, showing off his smart-ass thick rimmed glasses. "How rude. I'm 23. Just graduated from Pendleton University a 2 years ago." He shook his head, as if it was that rude not to tell how old he was.
"So.. what are we going to start with?" I asked. I couldn't help but wonder where this conversation will go. He's pretty good-looking.
Wait, what? No, he's a 23 year old man with a 5 years age gap. That is not good. I shook my head, trying to dismiss that thought.
"How about telling me why you registered for therapy sessions first?"
"I didn't. My mum did. After the death of my brother, Benedict, a year ago, she thought I went a little overboard."
"What do you mean?"
"I.. cried almost every night." I concentrated on the invisble thread on my jeans trying to show how much I didn't want to talk about this.
"Oh, I understand. Have you had any medication since?"
I shook my head no and fiddled with the hem of my top.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it now. But you will have to muster all your courage and bring it up someday, you know. That's what therapy sessions are for." Who is he to play all smarty pants? He just graduated 2 years ago, for Christ's sake. But still, I looked up and managed to curl up the edge of my mouth.
"Sounds good. Thanks."