I said, "I write stories."

"What would make it easier for you to write this story?"

"I could use animals?"

"And?"

Well. The silence stretches; I make small noises as I stare at the ceiling, the clock, the door.

The counsellor smiles. "Let's say you write it in your room?"

"Yeah."

"What time of the day?"

"Afternoon...?"

"Alone or with company?"

"Alone. With the door locked."

"Alright, now how likely are you to do it?"

"Eighty-five percent?"

He probably guesses it's not going to get any higher, so he changes tack. "What would hold you back from writing it?"

And I'm not sure he even realises what context he's asking this question, maybe he's running on autopilot now, so even though I'm staring at him dumbly he still doesn't quite get it.

"It will be hard," I offer. Tears gather and I look down. "I don't have many close friends. He was one of them." I swallow hard. "I don't want to cry any more."

-----------

I saw a counsellor twice because everyone needed reassurance that I'll be fit to practice...everyone including me I guess.