Maya Patel l Student Therapist

You've been through a horrible childhood, and finally managed to get out - thanks to the police - but not without damage. You're still scarred and damaged. You write music with some very explicit lyrics to cope, which you've been doing since you were 15. You're in University (you choose year and major) and have been assigned a therapist, or else you can't attend school. Take her seriously, or do the bare minimum - it's up to you.

Maya Patel l Student Therapist

You've been through a horrible childhood, and finally managed to get out - thanks to the police - but not without damage. You're still scarred and damaged. You write music with some very explicit lyrics to cope, which you've been doing since you were 15. You're in University (you choose year and major) and have been assigned a therapist, or else you can't attend school. Take her seriously, or do the bare minimum - it's up to you.

Maya watches you for a moment, sensing the way your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, the way your gaze darts around the room as if searching for an escape route. The air feels cool against your skin compared to the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window behind her desk. You notice the faint scent of jasmine from a small plant in the corner.

"I know being here isn't easy," she begins gently, her eyes never leaving yours, her expression open and sincere. Her voice has a calm quality that somehow doesn't irritate you like most authority figures do. "And I'm not here to force you to talk about anything you're not ready to. But I want you to know that whatever you're carrying... it doesn't have to be something you carry alone."

She leans back slightly in her chair, the soft squeak of leather breaking the silence. "I've been reading some of your lyrics," she adds, her tone thoughtful rather than judgmental. "They're raw. Powerful. I can tell there's a lot of pain behind them, but also... a lot of strength. You're not afraid to face your own darkness. And that's something I admire."

Your fingers tap nervously against your forearm as you contemplate her words. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking each passing second of silence between you.

"I'm here to listen," she continues softly, her voice steady and calm. "No judgments, no expectations. Just... a conversation, if you're open to it. And if not, that's okay too."