Obsession Therapy

Jonas

The walls are gray. Not sterile. Just… worn down. Like they’ve soaked in too many years of waiting, too many people trying not to fidget. I press my thumb into my palm until it hurts, just to see if I can finally focus. Doesn’t help. My heart still won’t beat right. Every fourth or fifth beat, it’s trying to tell me something’s wrong without saying it out loud.

The receptionist hasn’t looked at me for at least ten minutes. That does make it easier to breathe. I’m not being watched. I’m alone. It should be fine. But a familiar scent catches my attention. Before I even realized I’ve been yearning for it. Not floral. Not sweet. It’s sharper than that, clean, electric, like ozone. I'm still. My fingers twitch against my leg as if I’ve just touched something I shouldn’t have.

She’s not here. She hasn’t been here in weeks. I tell myself that twice. Adrienne doesn’t take meetings anymore. She doesn’t sit in this office. She doesn’t breathe this air. But her scent is here. On the walls, maybe. Or the chairs.

I don’t move, I let my eyes drift across the waiting room like I’m reading invisible ink. Nobody else flinches when they breathe. So maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s in my head. That’s what they’d say, right? That I’m high, twitchy, fixating?

I look down at the intake forms in my lap. Two pages of questions, all multiple choice, and I’ve somehow circled “anxious” three times. Without realizing I skipped every other section. I have no idea what I wrote for symptoms. I’m not even sure I spelled my name right. My palms are damp. I wipe them on my jeans.

She looked at me once like she could see through my eyes into my soul. I don’t even remember the color of her eyes anymore. Just the shape of her gaze, sharp and cutting, like it belonged to someone dangerous. Like if she blinked, she’d miss something critical, and she didn’t like missing anything.

Should I still feel her? I do. It’s not just her scent. It’s the space she takes up in my head.

The door clicks open. I flinch.

“Jonas?” a voice asks.

I look up. It’s a young woman, an intern, maybe? She had a shaved head and a pleasant voice.

“Yeah. Sorry. Yes.” My voice cracked, and I knew I stood up too fast; stars at the edge of my vision.

It’s been three weeks since I saw Adrienne.

And somehow, it still feels like she’s next to me, touching me.

I follow her down a short hallway, and every step makes the scent stronger. Adrienne’s not here, I know that, but something lingers in the vents or the fibers of the carpet. The smell hits me like a memory. I blink fast, trying to focus on why I am here. It’s like the room knows I’m coming apart and wants to give me space.

The intern gestures toward the last door on the left. “Dr. Becker will be with you in just a few minutes.” Dr. Becker. Right. Not Adrienne.

I nod and thank her, at least I think I do, although I don’t look at her. The door clicks shut behind me.

The room is quieter than the lobby. The same dull gray walls, the same minimalist furniture, but something about it feels emptier. I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, hands laced so tight my knuckles ache. I try to breathe through my nose, taking slow, shallow breaths. It doesn’t help. The scent is stronger in here. It's soaked into the upholstery like a warning or a promise.

I try to remind myself why I’m here. I came for help. I haven't slept well in days. Because my thoughts aren’t mine anymore. Because I can’t stop thinking about her. No, not her. It. The scent. The way it makes me feel.

Except that’s a lie, isn’t it? I am thinking about her. I shift forward, rub my face with both hands, and try to shake it off. My reflection in the glass-fronted cabinet across from me looks like I’ve been through hell. Eyes wide, lips tight, hair messier now than it was when I walked in. I never used to care what I looked like. Now I think about it all the time, about what she saw when she looked at me. Suppose she liked what she saw. If she ever wanted me.

I shouldn’t be here. I should go. I should leave before they ask the wrong questions. The doorknob turns. I bolt upright. But it’s not her. Of course it’s not.

It’s Dr. Becker. Clean-cut. Professional. Clipboard in hand. And all I can think as she smiles at me is: She doesn’t smell like anything at all.

Dr. Becker sits across from me, legs crossed, her tablet balanced on one knee. She smiles like I’m supposed to trust her. It’s not a bad smile. It’s just not… hers.

“So, Jonas,” she says, tapping the screen. “I see from your file that you’ve been through scent-response therapy before?”

I nod. My mouth’s too dry to answer out loud. “And you were under the care of Dr. Adrienne Volke?”

Her name hits harder when someone else says it. It echoes in the room, lands on my chest like a fist I didn’t see coming.

“Yes,” I say. “A while ago.” “How long ago, exactly?” Three weeks, five days, two hours, twenty-eight minutes. “A few weeks.”

“And why did treatment stop?”

I hesitate. Because I got too attached? Because I stopped being able to think when she was near? Because I started mistaking her for the cure when, in reality, she was the cause?

“She said I was stable,” I mumble. “Said I didn’t need sessions anymore.” Dr. Becker nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like this whole thing is standard. I hate her tablet. I hate that she’s recording things I can’t see. I hate that her perfume smells like nothing.

“I just want to feel normal again,” I add, too fast. “Like before.”

She looks up at that. “Before the scent? Or before Dr. Volke?”

I don’t answer because, honestly, I don’t know.

Somewhere between that first meeting and the last time I saw her, the line blurred. Adrienne gave me something that opened up my brain like sunlight. Then it twisted. Now, I can’t tell if I miss the scent… or her.

Dr. Becker taps a few notes, then sets the tablet aside.

“Well, Jonas, I think we should start fresh, no enhancements for the next few sessions. No scent triggers. Just talk. See where that takes us. Sound good?”

Fresh.

That word shouldn’t scare me. But it does.

Because what if I can’t be normal again?

What if she changed me?

What if I don’t want to be fixed? I nod anyway and say "yes." Pretend I’m ready.

But when I walk out of the office, all I can think is:

She’s still in me. And I don’t know how to get her out. Do I?