Monday morning arrived with the same soft quiet that fresh snow always seemed to bring. The roads had been cleared overnight, but icy patches still lingered along the edges, making everything glisten under the weak morning sun. The usual rush of getting ready for school was absent, leaving the house feeling strangely still. Even the air inside carried a different weight—quieter, softer, but thick with unspoken thoughts.

As I pulled on my coat, adjusting my scarf snugly around my neck, Mrs. Blake stood by the front door, twirling her keys in her hand. "Ready?" she asked, her voice warm but careful.

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I guess."

Her eyes flickered with something knowing, but she didn't push. Instead, she offered a small smile and led the way outside.

The moment we stepped into the crisp morning air, a sharp chill nipped at my cheeks, making me bury my face deeper into my scarf. The world outside was blanketed in white, the snow piled along the sidewalks and rooftops, untouched except for the occasional set of footprints leading toward the street. The air was thick with that fresh winter stillness, the kind that muffled sound and made everything feel slower.

As we walked toward the car, the only noise was the soft crunch of snow beneath our boots. It was strangely soothing, like the world had hit pause for just a moment. Mrs. Blake unlocked the car, and we climbed in, the leather seats icy beneath me. She started the engine, and a low hum filled the quiet as the heater whirred to life, pushing out warm air that felt almost too hot against my cold fingers.

I pulled my gloves off, rubbing my hands together as Mrs. Blake carefully backed out of the driveway. The tires crunched over the frozen slush, and then we were off, gliding slowly down the snow-lined streets.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The town looked different in the morning light, the frost glistening like tiny crystals on the bare tree branches. People were shoveling their driveways, bundled up in thick coats, their breath puffing out in the cold air. Storefronts had wreaths and twinkling lights still hanging from the holidays, though some windows were already switching over to New Year, New You sales signs.

Mrs. Blake finally broke the silence, her voice soft as she focused on the icy patches ahead. "Feeling okay about today?"

I shrugged, watching the snow-dusted trees blur past. "Yeah. I mean... I'm still nervous. But it's just talking."

She glanced at me briefly before returning her attention to the road. "Talking can be harder than it sounds sometimes." Her voice was gentle, not in a way that dismissed my worries but in a way that made me feel like she understood them. "But you've been doing great, Emily. Just take it one step at a time."

Her words settled over me like a warm blanket, easing some of the tightness in my chest. I exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the heater chase away the lingering cold from outside.

"I guess it just feels... weird," I admitted after a pause. "Like, I know Dr. Hart is nice and everything, but I still get nervous before I go in. It's like... I don't even know what I'm supposed to say half the time."

Mrs. Blake nodded thoughtfully as she turned onto a quieter street. "That's normal," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to know where to start. But you don't have to have all the answers right away. Just be honest about how you're feeling in the moment. That's enough."

I let her words sink in, rolling them around in my mind as I stared at the frost-laced window.

After a few minutes, she spoke again, her tone lighter this time. "You know, I used to get nervous before big conversations too."

I raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. "You?"

She laughed softly. "Of course. Everyone does. But my mom used to tell me something that always stuck with me."

"What's that?"

She gave me a quick, knowing smile. "She used to say, 'The hardest conversations are the ones worth having.'"

I let that sit for a moment, tracing invisible patterns against the fogged-up glass.

"Do you think this is one of those conversations?" I asked finally.

"I do," she said simply. "Because it's about you. And you matter, Emily."

Her words sent an unexpected warmth through me, settling in a place that had been cold for a long time. I swallowed past the lump in my throat, nodding slightly as I turned my gaze back to the window.

For the rest of the drive, we didn't say much. But the silence wasn't heavy—it was comfortable, like the snowfall outside, soft and quiet, but meaningful in its own way.

And somehow, that made me feel just a little bit braver.

The waiting room at Dr. Hart's office was quieter than ever. The kind of quiet that wasn't uncomfortable, but thick enough to notice. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the heater, the occasional rustle of magazine pages turning, and the soft clicking of a receptionist typing at her desk. A woman in the corner sniffled as she flipped through a book, and someone across from us absentmindedly tapped their fingers against their phone, the rhythmic sound punctuating the stillness.

As soon as we stepped inside, the receptionist, a woman with kind eyes and a voice as soothing as warm honey, greeted us with a gentle smile. "Good morning, Emily," she said, sliding a clipboard across the counter. "Same as usual. Take your time with these."

I offered her a faint smile as I took the clipboard, my fingers automatically curling around the pen attached by a thin plastic cord. The papers were familiar—too familiar. A checklist of how I'd been feeling, questions about sleep, appetite, whether I'd had more bad days than good ones. It was routine at this point, the answers etched into my brain like muscle memory. I filled it out quickly, marking the boxes almost without thinking, but I hesitated for a second on the last question: Do you feel safe?

I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping the pen just a little tighter.

Yes.

No.

Sometimes.

I let out a slow breath before carefully marking sometimes.

I filled out the rest of the questionnaire and handed the clipboard back to the receptionist, I returned to my seat beside Mrs. Blake. She was flipping through a magazine, though I noticed the way her eyes flicked toward me every so often, like she was quietly checking in. She didn't say anything, though. She didn't need to. The silence between us was easy, the kind of quiet that came from someone who had stood beside me through the worst of storms.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my coat tighter around me even though the office was warm. The waiting room was sparse, designed to be calming but impersonal. A few plastic plants sat in the corners, their fake leaves catching the glow of the overhead lights. A small table held a neat stack of puzzle books, untouched, as if no one had ever felt comfortable enough to pick them up.

Near the door, a glass-doored fridge stood stocked with complimentary sodas and bottled water. The labels were bright and cheerful against the dim room, little bursts of color in an otherwise muted space. I stared at it for a long moment, my fingers brushing against the buttons on my coat as a small battle waged in my head.

Growing up, I'd learned not to take free things. Free was rarely ever free. Everything came with a price, even if it wasn't one you could see right away. The idea of just walking up and grabbing something—it felt foreign, like breaking a rule I wasn't sure I was allowed to break.

I leaned toward Mrs. Blake, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think I could grab one?"

She looked up from her magazine, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners. "Of course, sweetheart. Go ahead."

Her answer was so simple, so certain, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I hesitated for another second before standing carefully, trying not to draw attention to myself as I walked across the room. The moment I opened the fridge, a small rush of cold air escaped, making my fingers prickle against the sudden chill. I hovered for a second before grabbing a can of soda, the metal icy and smooth against my palm.

It was just a drink. A small thing. But as I walked back to my seat, I couldn't shake the way my chest felt a little lighter—like I'd just allowed myself something I didn't even know I needed.

Mrs. Blake gave me a small nod of approval as I sat back down, her expression soft with understanding. I popped the tab, the quiet hiss filling the space between us. The first sip was cold and sweet, bubbles tickling my throat.

Maybe it was silly to feel proud over something so small. But as I sat there, soda in hand, waiting for my name to be called, it felt like another tiny step forward. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

A soft creak drew my attention to the door of Dr. Hart's office as it opened. She stepped out with her usual warm, inviting smile, the kind that always made the room feel a little safer. Her gaze flickered over me for a brief moment before her smile widened.

"Emily," she called, her voice light yet grounding. "Come on in. And I have to say, I love your new haircut—it really suits you."

A flicker of warmth spread through me at her words. I wasn't sure why, but hearing it from her made me feel... seen. "Thanks," I said, tucking a strand behind my ear.

Mrs. Blake, seated beside me, gave my hand a quick squeeze. "I'll be right here when you're done," she assured me.

I nodded, gripping my soda can a little tighter as I followed Dr. Hart inside.

Her office was just as I remembered it—a cozy space that somehow made talking easier. The soft glow from the corner lamp cast a golden hue against the pale blue walls, which were lined with bookshelves filled with a mix of clinical texts and novels. A small diffuser on the shelf released a faint scent of lavender, subtle but calming. The large window overlooked the snow-dusted street below, the flakes drifting lazily against the glass. It almost looked magical, like the whole world had paused just for this moment.

I settled onto the plush couch, still holding the cold soda in my hands as a grounding weight. Dr. Hart took her seat across from me in a comfortable-looking armchair, angled slightly so it didn't feel too formal. Her notepad rested on her knee, her pen poised, but she wasn't writing yet. She never did at the start—she always made sure to give me time to settle in first.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, her voice as gentle as ever.

I hesitated, staring at the silver rim of the soda can as I ran my thumb along it. I always struggled with that question. It felt so simple, yet so complicated. After a beat, I let out a slow breath and answered honestly. "Better," I said, glancing up at her. "Some days are harder than others, but it feels... manageable."

She nodded, her expression steady and reassuring. "That's a really good way to describe it. Managing hard days is a sign of progress." She paused, giving me space to gather my thoughts. "What's been on your mind recently?"

I fidgeted with the tab on the can, the slight metallic click filling the quiet space between us. "A lot, I guess," I admitted. "School stuff, thinking about... who I am. And I guess just... the past."

Dr. Hart tilted her head slightly, her brown eyes filled with quiet understanding. "The past can be heavy," she said softly. "Do you want to talk more about that today, or focus on something else?"

I thought about it for a long moment, my fingers tightening around the can. The past was always lurking in the back of my mind, like a shadow that wouldn't quite leave. But today, I didn't want to wade through those memories. Today, I wanted to focus on something else—on something that felt a little more in my control.

"Maybe something else," I said finally. "I've been thinking a lot about who I am, and it feels like... I'm figuring it out, but it's still confusing."

Dr. Hart leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful but never intrusive. "That's completely normal," she reassured me. "Figuring out who you are is a process, and it doesn't have to be rushed. There's no right timeline for understanding yourself." She let that settle for a moment before asking, "Have you felt supported in exploring this part of yourself?"

I nodded, a small smile creeping onto my face. "Mrs. Blake has been amazing. She gave me a Gender Fluid flag and always reminds me that it's okay to be me." The words felt warm in my chest as I said them. "But at the same time, I'm scared of what people will think. Especially at school."

"Fear of judgment can be really tough," she said, her voice laced with empathy. "But it sounds like you have a strong support system at home, which is a wonderful foundation. What about your friends? Do you feel supported by them?"

I hesitated before nodding again. "Jasmine and Mia have been really good to me," I admitted, my smile growing a little. "Jasmine especially. She's always standing up for me."

Dr. Hart's expression warmed. "That's really wonderful to hear. Having friends who truly accept and support you makes a big difference. But it sounds like there are still some challenges at school. Have you had any situations where you've felt... less supported?"

I stared down at the soda can, the condensation making my fingers damp. "Not really at home or with my close friends," I said slowly. "But at school... it's hard. People whisper things, or they'll give me weird looks. It's like they're waiting for me to mess up or trying to figure out if I'm worth their time."

Dr. Hart's expression didn't falter, but I could see the concern in her eyes. "That sounds really painful," she said gently. "Those kinds of reactions can make school feel like an unsafe place." She paused before adding, "Have you talked to anyone there about it? A teacher or counselor, maybe?"

I shook my head, sighing. "It's hard to know who I can trust."

"That makes sense," she agreed, nodding. "Building trust takes time, especially in a setting where you've felt judged. But it might be worth thinking about whether there's someone—just one person—who might be able to help. Someone who can be an ally for you."

I nodded slowly, her words sinking in. "Maybe."

Dr. Hart jotted something down in her notepad before meeting my gaze again. "Emily, I want you to hear this: You're doing a lot of brave work already. Exploring who you are, seeking out support, and finding ways to cope with difficult days—all of that takes real strength."

Her words settled over me like a soft blanket, warm and reassuring. I didn't always feel strong, but maybe I didn't have to. Maybe just trying—just showing up—was enough.

"Thanks," I said, my voice quieter but steadier than before.

"You're welcome," Dr. Hart said with a small smile. "Now, let's talk about what we can do to make things feel a little easier at school. How does that sound?"

I took a deep breath, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. "Good," I said, a flicker of hope igniting inside me. "That sounds good."

As the session wound down, Dr. Hart set her notepad aside and gave me a soft, encouraging smile. "You're doing really well, Emily. These conversations aren't always easy, but they're important. Processing things takes time, and you're allowing yourself to do that, which is really brave."

Her words warmed something deep inside me. I wasn't sure I always felt brave, but hearing her say it made it feel a little more true. I nodded, gripping the soda can in my hands. "Thanks," I said, my voice quiet but steady.

She stood and walked to the door, holding it open for me. "I'm proud of the progress you're making," she said as I stepped past her. "Keep taking it one step at a time, okay?"

I glanced up at her, offering a small but genuine smile. "Okay."

Walking back into the waiting room, I immediately spotted Mrs. Blake, still sitting in the same chair where I'd left her. A book rested in her lap, but she looked up as soon as she heard the door open. Her warm smile was the first thing I saw, and for a moment, the quiet comfort of knowing she was there settled over me like a soft blanket.

"All done?" she asked, closing her book and slipping it into her bag.

"Yeah," I said, nodding as I zipped up my coat. "It went well."

Her expression softened. "I'm glad to hear that." She reached over and gently squeezed my shoulder before leading the way to the exit.

The cold hit us the moment we stepped outside. The air was sharp and crisp, nipping at my cheeks as a light snowfall drifted from the sky. The whole world seemed quiet, wrapped in the hush that only fresh snow could bring. The streets were still lined with white, though the tire tracks and footprints from the morning rush had turned parts of it to slush.

Mrs. Blake pulled her coat tighter and led me to the car, unlocking it with a beep. As I climbed inside, I let out a small sigh, the warmth of the heated seats immediately sinking into my skin. The car smelled faintly of vanilla—probably from one of those air fresheners she kept clipped to the vent. It was a small thing, but it made the space feel familiar, safe.

She started the engine, and we pulled out onto the road, the tires crunching over packed snow. The sky was a pale gray, the kind of winter afternoon that made the world feel slower, softer.

"Do you want to talk about anything from your session?" she asked, glancing over at me. Her tone was casual, open—an invitation, not a demand.

I thought about it for a moment, running my fingers over the rim of the soda can still in my lap. "Not right now," I admitted. "But it was good. We talked about school, about figuring stuff out. She helped me think about things a little differently."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her hands steady on the wheel. "I'm really glad to hear that." A pause. Then, gently, "You know, if there's ever anything you want to talk about, I'm always here."

I glanced at her, taking in the sincerity in her eyes. She'd said it before, but somehow, it still mattered every time she did.

"I know," I said, my voice quieter now. "Thanks."

She smiled, her focus returning to the road. "How about we make it a cozy day when we get home? I was thinking hot cocoa, a movie, and maybe some blankets by the fireplace."

The idea made me exhale some of the tension I hadn't realized I was still carrying. A quiet afternoon at home, wrapped in warmth and familiarity, sounded like exactly what I needed.

"That sounds perfect," I said, leaning my head against the window and watching the snow fly past.