The clock on the wall ticked louder than it needed to, each second dragging the silence across the room like a weight. The waiting room had a distinct smell of overbrewed coffee. Chairs lined the walls in a crooked semi-circle, their thin cushions doing little to disguise how uncomfortable they really were, making their experience even harder.
Five people sat, strangers to each other, yet bound together by the same invisible fate. They were all here because life had hurt them in some way.
Fiona shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, her law textbook resting unopened on her lap. Every so often, she let out a nervous laugh at nothing in particular—masking the heaviness in her chest that she didn’t want anyone to notice.
Fred sat two chairs down, his eyes drawn to the floor. His jacket looked a size too big, worn at the sleeves, like it had belonged to someone else first. His hands were folded tightly, knuckles pale, as though letting go of them might release something he wasn’t ready to face.
Rebecca fidgeted with the sleeves of her school blazer, tapping her foot in uneven rhythms. She avoided eye contact, but her gaze kept darting to the door as if every second she spent here was another chance for the panic to rise in her throat.
Jonathan scrolled aimlessly on his phone, his thumb moving, but his eyes unfocused. The glow of the screen was a shield, keeping him from thinking too much about why he was really there—the fresh absence of his father and the rawness of grief that refused to leave.
And then Chloe, sitting near the window, stared outside as if the world beyond the glass might offer her a different story. Her hands rested protectively over an invisible weight, remembering what she had lost.
None of them spoke at first. In the waiting room, words were heavy things. They lingered in the air, uncertain, waiting for someone brave enough to break the silence.
The clock ticked again.
And then Fiona, with her half-forced grin, let out a quiet joke—almost to herself, but just loud enough for the others to hear.
It was the first crack in the silence.
The joke wasn’t particularly funny—something about the décor looking like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘90s—but it landed gently in the room, like a pebble tossed into still water.
Rebecca looked up first, her anxious tapping came to an abrupt halt as she allowed herself a small smile. She didn’t say anything, but the smile was enough for Fiona, who leaned back in her chair as if her mission had been accomplished.
Fred shifted, clearing his throat. “I think it was the ‘80s,” he muttered, before his eyes returned to the floor.
The room reacted as though a door had opened. Rebecca gave a soft giggle, almost surprised it had come from her own mouth. Jonathan glanced up from his phone, meeting Fred’s eyes for the briefest moment before quickly looking away. Chloe turned from the window, her expression unreadable, but for the first time, she seemed present in the room.
The receptionist, hidden behind a glass screen, shuffled papers without looking up. The only other sound was the clock, tick—tick—tick—marking the fragile progress of this unlikely group.
“Do you all come here often?” Fiona asked, raising her eyebrows as though she were making small talk at a bus stop instead of in a therapist’s waiting room.
Jonathan gave a humourless chuckle. “First time,” he said. His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard, pretending not to notice.
“Same,” Chloe murmured. Her gaze drifted back to the window, though now it felt less like escape and more like hesitation.
Fred didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t speak again at all. Then he in a sad voice “Fifth year.” He didn’t explain further, but the weight of those words pressed into the room like a stone dropped in water.
Rebecca hugged her blazer tighter around herself. “I’m just… trying it,” she whispered. “Mum said it might help.”
Silence followed, not heavy this time but softer, as though each of them was recognising themselves in the others.
The door to the therapy rooms opened with a quiet click, and a woman in her thirties stepped out, her eyes red but her shoulders lighter somehow. She gave a polite nod to the waiting strangers and left without a word.
The receptionist called a name.
None of them knew whose turn would come next.
But for the first time since sitting down, the waiting didn’t feel quite so unbearable.
