I cannot wait to see what you come up with next.

I cannot wait to see what you come up with next.
Violet’s pov

I took the creaky old lift up to the third floor of a former factory. Long ago, it had produced weight scales, but now the building had been split into studios, meeting rooms, and small office spaces for start-ups.

After hours of scrolling online, I had gathered every therapist in Rutberg into a list. From there, I decided only women would do. Talking about my private life to a man was out of the question. Out of the few female names left, one stood out: Dr. Arianna Hanniford, a psychologist who used art as her main tool in therapy.

Making the call had been simple enough. One of her patients had just moved away, so she could take me in right away. But sitting in her office reception, waiting to meet her, was another challenge altogether. My palms were damp, my stomach felt unsettled, and my chest was rising and falling too quickly. I perched on a chair beside a fake plant and a pile of Psychology Today magazines, wondering why I had signed myself up for this. The thought of spilling my secrets to someone I had never met before made my chest ache. What would she think of me? Of my career? Of the fact that I was in a polyamorous relationship? Why did it even matter so much what she thought?

My mother had recently started seeing someone for counselling, and if she could take that step, then so could I. The twins had gently nudged me in the same direction, reminding me that I deserved help too. Even if I doubted whether this woman could guide me, skipping the appointment would mean I would never know.

At exactly eleven o’clock, the office door opened, and out stepped a tall woman with striking features. She wore a long flowing skirt and layers of colourful jewellery, giving off a calm, almost free-spirited aura. She looked far younger than I had expected.

Her office surprised me as well. Instead of the sterile space I had imagined, the walls were covered with abstract paintings and knotted hangings. Sun-catchers sparkled in the large windows, scattering coloured light across the room. A fish tank sat in one corner, green with algae, though I could not spot any actual fish. The mismatched chairs and tables looked as if they had been collected over the years at markets or yard sales. Art projects sat half-finished on shelves and counters, surrounded by jars of brushes and paints.

She motioned toward a small navy love seat overflowing with pillows in every bright shade imaginable. I lowered myself carefully onto the edge, still unsure how to let my guard down. A low coffee table separated the seat from a large armchair, where she settled herself and smiled warmly.

“Welcome. I am glad you are here,” she said in a voice as open as her expression.

“Thank you,” I murmured, staring at my hands as they twisted together in my lap. “Nice to meet you too. And thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course,” she replied easily, her tone as kind as her presence. “Let me tell you a little about how I work.” She explained her approach, describing how art could give form to feelings that words could not carry. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “parts of us remain silent, but they can still speak through colours, shapes, and images.”

I nodded slowly, chewing my lip, trying to take it in.

“So, how do you feel about making something today?” Arianna asked.

I blinked at her, caught off guard. “I thought we would… I don’t know… talk first? Shouldn’t you hear how messy my life is before we jump into this?”

But she was already moving with a calm energy, pulling a sketchbook from the shelf and setting down a box filled with pencils, markers, and pastels. “Here is what I would like you to try,” she said gently. “Draw how you are feeling right now, but do it in an abstract way. No rules, just shapes and colours.” She pushed the box closer and gave me a reassuring smile.

The blank page stared back at me, and I stared at it right back. All that empty white space felt overwhelming. How was I supposed to show what I was feeling when I could not even untangle what those feelings were? Sometimes I felt too much at once, as if everything inside me was fighting for space, and this little rectangle of paper could never hold it.

“Do you mind if I work with clay while you draw?” she asked, already reaching for a container.

I shook my head. Words were too heavy to lift in that moment.

“Start with something simple,” she suggested softly. “Pick a feeling that is sitting near the surface. Close your eyes if you need to, and imagine what that feeling might look like.”

I drew in a long breath and rummaged through the supplies until I found coloured pencils. Start small, I told myself. My mother came to mind first, and my hand began sketching jagged shapes that stretched outward like spikes. I pressed the colours hard into the paper—red, black, and yellow. Then my father filled my thoughts, and I made a large dark circle to show the emptiness he had left behind.

Once I started, I could not stop. Shapes and shades poured out without me planning them. I added soft green curves for the comfort of writing, then gentle pastel bubbles for the twins, almost like clouds tinged with the glow of sunset. Yet even those pretty clouds carried a shadow, something faintly dangerous, as if they might burst.

By the time forty minutes passed, the page was covered. My body felt both lighter and unsettled as I set the pencils aside and slid them back into the box. I realised I had not spoken once, and Arianna had hardly said a word either, except when she asked if I wanted some music. I nodded, and she played a quiet instrumental track from her phone. While I filled the page, she rolled and shaped pieces of clay, stacking and slicing them with patient focus. I felt her attention on me at times, though she never interrupted until I stopped drawing.

“Wow,” she said, studying my paper with interest. “It looks like there is a lot going on inside you. Would you like to tell me about what you drew?”

My throat tightened. Panic prickled at me. I was supposed to be good with words, they were what I lived by, but now, when I needed them most, nothing came. No clever remark, no sarcastic mask, not even a safe joke to hide behind. I felt stripped bare.

Arianna packed her clay away in a small container that looked like something meant for a sandwich, then slid her chair a little closer. “Maybe start with this one,” she said, pointing at the cluster of pastel clouds. “The colours feel light and peaceful. Does this connect to a good part of your life?”

“My… my boyfriends,” I admitted, my face heating up as the words stumbled out. “There are two of them.”

“Oh?” Her eyes lit with curiosity, but not judgment. “So you are in an open relationship?”

“No,” I said quickly, fumbling for the right words. “It is… it is a poly relationship.”

“I understand,” Arianna said gently. “And what feeling do you connect with that?”

I pressed my teeth against my lip and looked at the page. “Safe,” I admitted. “They make me feel protected and cared for. But at the same time, I am scared.”

“What brings the fear?”

My palms were damp, so I rubbed them against my jeans. “Um…” I drew in a shaky breath. “That it will not last. That it is temporary. Things do not stay steady in my life. I am… I am scared of how much I love them, because I know how deeply it will cut when it ends.”

“I see.” She pulled out a pad of purple paper and jotted something down before pointing toward the large dark circle. “And this one?”

“That is about my father,” I said, surprised at how much easier the words came now. “He died.”

Her face softened. “I am so sorry.”

“He left this huge, ugly hole in my world,” I said, my voice falling quieter with each word. “He was the only person who really cared about me.” The sound of my own voice startled me, it was so small, almost childlike, as if the younger version of me was finally speaking instead of the woman I was now.

We continued to move around the page, and when her finger rested on the jagged shapes, I spoke before she could ask. “My mother. Our relationship is… complicated. I love her, but there are times I feel so angry with her too.”

Arianna lifted the drawing and held it near the window. Coloured light touched the paper, making the shapes glow. “Besides being such a powerful reflection of your feelings, this is also a beautiful piece of art. When you called, you mentioned you sometimes create art?”

I picked at the seam of my jeans, embarrassed. “Only a little. I am not serious about it. I doodle while I write. I like drawing people mostly.”

“Well,” she said, studying it one more time, “you might actually want to frame this. It is striking. I cannot wait to see what you come up with next.” She handed it back to me with an encouraging smile.

I blinked down at the paper in my hands. To me, it looked like nothing more than my tangled emotions thrown across the page. It felt messy and raw, not like something you would hang on a wall. More like something I would crumple and toss the second I got home.

We confirmed another appointment, and she walked me to the door. Out in the waiting area, a woman was already sitting in the chair I had used earlier. I kept my eyes averted, not wanting to intrude on her privacy by acknowledging that she was here for the same reason as me.

A few minutes later, I was back in the old elevator, rattling down to the ground floor. I felt… altered. Nothing huge had taken place. It was just one session, and I had not shared much of my life story. I had not dug into the humiliating parts or gotten any magical advice about how to fix myself. All I had done was draw, talk about what the shapes meant, and listen while she worked quietly with clay.

Yet for the first time in what felt like years, I could sense my feelings instead of shoving them aside. It was strange, like I had finally stepped back into my own body after drifting for so long. I did not know yet whether that was comforting or unsettling. But it was something.