Martin sat on the edge of the therapist’s chair as if it were a witness box and he had just been asked, Where were you on the night of… well, all of them, really? His posture suggested a man fully prepared to exonerate himself — from what, exactly, remained a fluid question.
Across from him, the therapist — unnamed, unsmiling, and entirely composed — flipped the cover of her notepad with a sort of bureaucratic grace, as if opening a folder marked Mildly Unhinged Men with Internet Access.
“Martin,” she began, her voice soft and grain-free, “how have you been since our last session?”
Martin exhaled. Not a sigh, exactly. More like a pressure valve.
“Well,” he said, adjusting his posture by micrometres, “I’ve had a few… episodes. Nothing acute. Not dangerous. But quite cognitively — dense.”
He paused to assess her reaction. She nodded. He continued.
“There was a visit to a convenience store. I believed — erroneously — that I had shoplifted. There was alcohol involved. And then I watched the CCTV footage in full, with permission. Two hours. I came out of it vindicated.”
“Vindicated,” she echoed, scribbling. “Is that the word you’d use?”
“It’s the only word,” Martin said. “I was tearful. But triumphant.”
The therapist tapped her pen against the pad, lightly.
“And the police station?”
He blinked, feigned confusion, then confessed with the air of a man handing over contraband at the border.
“Yes. A short visit. Just a query, really. A legal status check.”
She waited.
“Just… to ensure that my name hadn’t come up in any active investigations.”
“Martin, you do realise that’s not a standard use of a police station.”
“I do. That’s why I always preface my questions with full context and humility. I make it very clear I’m not wasting time — I’m offering an opportunity to clarify my innocence in real-time.”
The therapist dropped her pen.
“You’ve said before,” she began, “that your anxieties are linked to your visa status. That you fear deportation. And that you’re worried any small misstep could be misread as—”
“Subversive intent,” Martin interjected. “Yes.”
She nodded, measured, then leaned forward slightly.
“I want to bring something up that we’ve circled before. You’ve used the word sanctuary over a dozen times in our sessions. You’ve described your home country as — your words — ‘a culture of casual cruelty.’ You said that here, you feel invisible in the best way.”
“I did say that.”
“And I believe you. I believe your fear is real. I believe you were bullied. Repeatedly. For years.”
Martin shifted. His tie — unnecessary, unironed, and voluntarily worn — flapped gently against his knee.
“But what you’re doing now,” she continued, “is transforming sanctuary into surveillance. You’re watching yourself. You’re filing mental reports. You’re turning your own thoughts into risk assessments.”
He considered that, almost impressed. “That’s rather good.”
She smirked. “It’s not meant to be.”
A pause.
“You’re not just living here,” she said. “You’re trying to qualify for your own life. Daily. Hourly.”
Martin nodded slowly, solemnly, as if acknowledging an official transcript being read back to him.
“I understand your logic,” he said. “But you must concede that your government is becoming more strict with people like me.”
“I’m listening.”
“The visa regulations. They’re clamping down. Tighter criteria. Zero tolerance for even minor offences. The mood is changing — publicly. I read the statements. I read the bulletins.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
“It feels like they’re using any excuse to get rid of us. Even those of us who are — and I say this without boasting — law-abiding, tax-contributing, economically neutral presences.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she folded her hands.
“There is some truth to that.” she said. “That’s not paranoia. That’s objective reality. Things are tightening.”
Martin blinked.
“But,” she said, “your paranoia is amplifying that reality into absurdity. It’s turning possibility into prophecy. You’re not interpreting events — you’re fictionalising them. And then living inside the fiction.”
Martin exhaled again — less valve, more funeral organ.
“So even my awareness is suspect,” he said. “I’m paranoid about my paranoia. Which is a separate paranoia. I see that.”
“And now you’re narrating your insight as a third-party observer. That’s a defence mechanism.”
Martin sat up straighter. “Do you think a border agent would see it that way?”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“This isn’t about a border agent.”
He raised a finger. “But it could be.”
And there it was: the spiral, elegant and ridiculous, tightening with each turn.
She looked at the clock.
“Martin, I’m going to say something you won’t like. You’re not on trial. You’re not applying for citizenship. You’re not in court. You’re in therapy. And the only thing you need to prove is that you want to get better.”
Martin stared at the carpet for a moment. It was grey. Reliable. Lintless.
“I do want to get better,” he said softly. “But also… I want a written confirmation of that. Ideally countersigned.”
She chuckled. Couldn’t help it.
“You’re the only person I’ve met who wants their own recovery notarised.”
“Would that be possible?”
“No.”
They sat in silence. Across the hall, a door clicked. A voice murmured. The world moved on.
Finally, Martin stood. He smoothed his shirt, adjusted his tie, and reached for the doorknob.
“I’ll see you next week,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Unless I’ve been deported.”
“Martin.”
“Kidding.”
He wasn’t.