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The worn leather of the armchair released a soft sigh as I settled into my accustomed groove, a familiar participant in this weekly ritual. Outside, a persistent drizzle blurred the city into a watercolor of gray and muted green, the perfect backdrop for the internal weather I so often brought here. Dr. Evans sat in her own chair, a simple wooden frame with a cushion that never seemed to retain an impression, her pen poised patiently over her ubiquitous notebook. I began with the mundane, detailing the minor frustrations of a stalled project at work and a misunderstanding with a neighbor over a misplaced package. Each sentence felt like a stone I was moving from one pile to another, a tedious but necessary rearrangement of my own emotional landscape. I could feel the real issue, the heavy, silent thing I had carried in with me, shifting uncomfortably with every casual word I spoke. Finally, the trivialities exhausted, a profound silence descended upon the room, thick and expectant like the air before a summer storm. It was in that quiet, punctuated only by the distant swish of a car on the wet street, that the carefully constructed dam of my composure began to fissure. The truth, when it came, was not a torrent but a slow, painful seepage of confessed fears and long-buried regrets. And as I spoke, the room seemed to hold my words, not judging, but simply containing them, making them feel less like a collapse and more like a necessary, long-delayed release.