Chapter 2 - The Static Between

The house was too quiet again.

Aaliyah Jackson moved through her morning routine like muscle memory, shower, moisturizer, silk blouse, black slacks, heels by the door. Her husband, Julian, sat at the kitchen table in a designer dress shirt, tie loose, coffee mug beside his laptop. He barely glanced up as Aaliyah walked in, heels in hand, hair pulled back tight, quiet and elegant.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“You’re late,” he replied, eyes never leaving the screen.

“I still have time. My first client isn’t until”

Julian cut her off. “You say that every morning, and yet somehow, you’re always rushing.”

She poured coffee slowly. Measured.

“Julian, I don’t need a lecture. Not today.”

“Of course not. God forbid someone holds you accountable.”

She turned, cup in hand, and studied him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Julian finally looked up and smirked. “It means you walk around like you’re the only one with pressure. Like you’re the only one sacrificing for something bigger. Newsflash, therapy sessions aren’t world-saving. Some of us actually run things.”

“I help people not fall apart, Julian. That matters.”

He laughed. “Sure. Right up there with yoga instructors and Instagram life coaches.”

A long beat. Aaliyah didn’t blink.

“Is this how you build people up now?”

Julian leaned back, smug. “No. This is how I stay sane while paying for a life where my wife barely talks to me unless I say something wrong.”

“You say something wrong every time you open your mouth lately.”

“Then maybe you should talk to one of your patients about it. Oh wait, maybe you already are.”

He stood, grabbed his laptop, and headed for the door.

“Don’t forget the gala Friday. And for the love of God, wear the red dress. The one that doesn’t look like you’re trying to impress a professor.”

“Not a professor. Just someone who still sees me,” she said under her breath.

He paused, back still to her.

Then he kept walking.

SLAM.

The door shut. Silence filled the space.

They were still tagged in last week’s charity gala photos, polished smiles, matching black-tie formality, and fifty likes in two minutes. To the world, they were bulletproof. But behind closed doors, they barely spoke.

She glanced at the clock, 7:42 AM. Damn.

Aaliyah slipped into her blazer with practiced speed, heels dangling from one hand, coffee in the other. She grabbed her keys off the counter and was out the door in seconds, jaw clenched, movements sharp.

Her heels clicked against the pavement as she power-walked to the car, the hem of her blouse fluttering in the breeze. She didn’t bother eating. Again.

Julian’s words still echoed in her head. “Therapy sessions aren’t world-saving.”

She rolled her eyes at the memory as she slid into the driver’s seat, but the sting lingered. It always did. She tapped the steering wheel, glancing at the dashboard clock like it was taunting her. 7:57 AM. She hated being late, not because she feared judgment, but because control mattered. Routine was safety. And lately, nothing in her life felt safe.

At a red light, her mind began to unwind. Lately, her thoughts had wandered more than they should.

To her patients.
To one in particular.

Dwayne Walker.

There was something about him that unsettled her. Not just his stories, but the way he carried his pain like armor. The way he answered questions with questions. The way his eyes lingered on her longer than they should have, not disrespectfully, but deeply.

She told herself it was curiosity. Clinical interest. The kind that fades with diagnosis. But it didn’t fade. It lingered, in the silence, in the way his voice lived rent-free in her memory. The way he smiled like it didn’t belong on his face. The way he looked at her as if he knew she was hiding something too.

She shook it off and headed to the office. She pulled into the back lot just shy of 8:05 AM, muttering under her breath. She parked and rushed up the side entrance, her bag bumping her hip, heels echoing in the empty hall.

The moment her office door closed behind her, she exhaled, back in control. At least, on the outside.

Today would be like every other day, patient after patient, a carefully structured schedule, and a dinner at home filled with silence. She had made her choices.

But somewhere beneath the surface, something was shifting.

And she could feel it.

Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf behind her, third shelf, second book from the left. She knew exactly where it was.

She stood, walked over, and pulled out the textbook: Cognitive Pathways in Behavioral Therapy. A volume she rarely opened anymore. From between its pages, the note slid out like a secret waiting to be remembered.

She held it in her hand for a moment, unfolded it carefully.

“If this doesn’t work, you owe me one sunrise jog. No clipboard, no rules. Just you, me, and silence.”

A whisper of a smile touched her lips before she could stop it. Not because it was flirtatious, though it was, but because it felt dangerous in all the ways she never allowed herself to entertain.

She hadn’t jogged at sunrise in years.

Not since she and Julian stopped waking up at the same time.

She folded the note again, a little slower this time, her fingers brushing the paper like it might hold a pulse. She stared down at it, at the intent behind the words, at what they didn’t say outright.

No clipboard. No rules.
No ring?

A knock at the door startled her.

She tucked the note back into its place, spine to paper, paper to shelf.

“Come in,” she called out, voice smooth and steady again.

The door opened. Dwayne walked in, joggers, black tee, confidence muted by something more guarded. But his eyes? They found her immediately.

“Morning, Doc.”

She nodded, cool and collected. “Morning, Dwayne.”

But for just a second, before she picked up her pen, she let her gaze linger a breath too long. And she wondered, would it feel different… to see him outside this room?

He sat down slowly, leaning back but never quite relaxing. His eyes scanned the room like he was checking for exits, then landed on her, studying, not staring.

Aaliyah crossed her legs and opened her notebook. “Last time, you mentioned you’ve been feeling... disconnected. From your routine. From the people around you. Do you feel like that’s changed since our last session?”

Dwayne gave a soft laugh, not amused, just tired.

“Not really. I still wake up feeling like I’m wearing somebody else’s skin.”

She jotted that down without reacting. “That’s a powerful way to describe it. Like you’re pretending to be yourself?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I go through the motions. I talk to people. Smile when I’m supposed to. But none of it feels real. It's like... I’m playing a part in a life I didn’t ask for.”

She nodded, careful to keep her expression neutral. “And when you’re alone?”

His eyes flickered, something passed through them. Hesitation. Maybe shame.

“That’s when it gets loud,” he said finally. “Too many thoughts. Can’t sort them out.”

She tapped her pen softly. “What kinds of thoughts?”

He looked at her, long enough to make her uncomfortable, or maybe just aware.

“Do you ever feel like the version of you everyone sees… isn’t who you are at all?”

That stopped her for a moment. It hit too close to home.

She smiled faintly, professionally. “We’re here to talk about you, Dwayne.”

“Right,” he said, eyes still locked on hers. “But I’m guessing you know the feeling.”

A beat passed.

She cleared her throat and shifted slightly in her seat.

Dwayne’s gaze dropped to the floor, where a small crack split the tile near her chair, jagged, hairline, barely visible. His focus locked there like he was trying to fall through it.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said quietly.

She let the silence stretch.

“There was a time I knew who I was. Or at least… I thought I did.” He gave a soft laugh, flat, humorless. “Had plans. Structure. Everything neatly filed in my head.”

Aaliyah didn’t write that down. She just watched him.

“What changed?” she asked.

He inhaled slowly, then ran his thumb along the edge of the chair's armrest, over and over, like he was smoothing out something rough.

“I saw something I shouldn’t have,” he said. “Or maybe… I did something. Depends who you ask.”

She tilted her head just slightly, her voice calm. “And if I asked you?”

He didn’t answer. His hands stilled, then formed loose fists.

“It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s like there’s this… sealed room in my head. No windows. No clocks. Just memory. Noise.”

He blinked hard, and for a moment, his jaw tightened, like he was fighting the shape of a word he couldn’t say.

“They say if you bury something deep enough, it dies.” His voice was quieter now, almost distant. “But I think it waits. It festers.”

Aaliyah didn’t respond right away. Her fingers were still, pen resting gently against the edge of her notebook.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost careful. “You don’t have to open the door. But maybe just tell me what the hallway looks like.”

That pulled something from him, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile.

He leaned back, arms folding tightly across his chest.

“You ever get tired of being the one in control all the time?”

Aaliyah didn’t flinch, but something in her expression paused, a flicker behind the eyes. Not fear. Just... surprise.

“You’d rather study me than talk about yourself?” she asked, her tone neutral but precise.

Dwayne gave a soft smile, not mocking, not quite warm either.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure out who I’m really talking to.”

“You’re talking to your therapist.”

“Yeah, I got that part.” He smiled again, still not fully in it. “I’m asking about the person underneath. The one who’s not scribbling notes and watching for signs.”

She stayed still, spine straight, pen in hand.

“Do you always keep the wall that high?”

“Boundaries are part of the work,” she replied calmly.

“So is trust.”

He leaned back again, the rhythm in his fingers gone now, replaced by something more deliberate, watching her, measuring her.

“You want me to be honest, right? To drag out the stuff I’ve spent years trying to bury. But I don’t know anything about you. Not even what scares you.”

“This isn’t about me,” she said quietly.

“That’s convenient.”

The air between them thickened. Neither of them moved.

Then he stood up.

Aaliyah blinked. “Dwayne?”

He paced once, then turned toward the door.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered.

Her voice stayed calm. “What was?”

“This. Talking. Coming here. Acting like any of this is going to fix anything.”

She stood slowly. “You’re not acting. You’re making progress.”

He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. His voice was rising now, not shouting, but sharp enough to slice the calm. “And for what? So you can take notes and nod and call it ‘breakthroughs’?”

Aaliyah stepped closer, her voice dropping with urgency.

“You’re doing well, Dwayne. Better than you think. I’ve seen walls like yours, hell, I’ve built them myself. But you let them down today, even just a little. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

Regret was already pooling in the lines of his face.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that,” he muttered.

“Why not?” Aaliyah asked, calm but firm.

“Because it doesn’t change anything and I know what I've done.”

He moved closer to the door, anger simmering under the surface, not at her, not even at himself. At the unbearable weight of being seen.

Aaliyah took a small step forward, the words catching in her throat before she could stop them.

“Please… don’t go.”

But Dwayne was already pulling the door open.

He hesitated for half a breath, not enough to give hope, just enough to sting, then walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, he was gone.

Aaliyah stood there, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. She didn’t pick up her notebook. Didn’t move.

Her throat tightened.

Not because he yelled. Not because he stormed out.

But because she’d asked him to stay. And he didn’t.

She blinked once, slow and heavy, and sat down, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. A new kind of quiet. Not the calm of solitude, but the echo of something that might not come back.

She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She didn’t know if she wanted him to come back as a patient, or something else entirely.