CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THERAPY

Maggie set her coffee down with a decisive clink. “I think you should talk to someone.”

Contessa looked up from her own cup. “I am talking to you.”

Maggie sighed, rubbing her temple. “No, hon. I mean a professional. A therapist.”

Contessa tilted her head. “I do not require mental intervention.”

Maggie gave her a look—one of those exasperated, fond, but slightly concerned looks she had grown frustratingly good at directing her way. “It’s not about ‘intervention.’ It’s about having a place to talk. To process things.”

Contessa took a slow sip of her coffee. “And therapy is the best option?”

“Yeah, I’ve been before. It helps.”

Contessa considered that. “What would a therapist provide that you do not?”

Maggie huffed a soft laugh. “For one, actual training. I’m just some lady.”

“You are not ‘just some lady.’”

Maggie’s expression softened, but she shook her head. “Sweetheart, I love you, but this isn’t up to you to decide.”

Contessa frowned. “I am quite certain it is.”

Maggie exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Look, you’ve been through… so much. More than anyone should. And you just—” She gestured vaguely. “You bury it. Like it doesn’t touch you.”

Contessa took another sip of her coffee. “It does not affect my ability to function.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Maggie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You were at a funeral, and you—God, Contessa, you talked about death like it was just math.”

“It is.”

Maggie flinched, and Contessa hesitated. The silence between them stretched, thick with something unspoken.

When Maggie finally spoke again, her voice was softer. “It’s not just about that. It’s how you look at everything—how you handle things. Like you’re… standing outside of them, looking in. Like it’s happening at a distance.” She tapped her fingers against the table. “I know you’re trying. I see it. But don’t you ever wonder if it’s okay to let yourself feel things? To not always treat emotions like a puzzle to solve?”

Contessa remained quiet.

Did she ever wonder?

She had walked away from everything she had known. From certainty. From control. From a life where every outcome was laid before her like a well-ordered map. And yet, standing here in the aftermath, she found herself unmoored in ways she had never anticipated.

She didn’t regret it.

But she didn’t understand it, either.

Maggie’s voice softened further. “I just… I want you to be okay.”

Contessa looked at her, at the quiet worry in her eyes. She thought of everything she had done, everything she had set in motion. Could she explain any of it to a stranger? Would they understand?

Would they try to fix what couldn’t be fixed?

She set her cup down, fingers resting lightly against the ceramic. “I will consider it,” she said at last.

Maggie studied her for a moment, then reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “That’s all I ask.”

Contessa squeezed back.