The rain fell softly but relentlessly, as if apologizing for its own persistence. Westminster lay wrapped in gray; traffic dragged itself forward, and the Thames, murky and cold, slid beneath the bridges.
On the seventeenth floor of the private Ashgrove Mental & Wellness Institute, tucked among the older buildings lining the South Bank, was the office of Dr. Edward Johnson. The building—modern yet deliberately unobtrusive—was known for its discretion: white corridors, glass elevators, and views of a city that rarely returns a gaze.
The office was modest in size. A desk. Two armchairs. Wall-mounted shelves lined with neatly arranged books on psychiatry and philosophy. In one corner, a potted plant that had been fighting for survival for months. And a single, enormous window overlooking the Thames, with St. Paul’s Cathedral visible in the distance. That view was the only constant in the room.
Dr. Edward Johnson sat behind his desk, a notebook in his hand, his glasses clipped to the pocket of his shirt. A knock came at the door, and his secretary ushered in the patient.
“Good afternoon, Doctor.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rebecca. Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair across from him. “Or would you prefer the couch today?”
Rebecca was a woman in her early forties. Impeccably dressed, her movements calm and restrained. She wore a long coat in a dark butter tone—one of those garments that signals expense without announcing it. On her hands were leather gloves the color of wine, which she removed with care and placed atop her handbag: black, elegant, rigid in form, unbranded yet unmistakably refined. Everything about her suggested control—deliberate, practiced, exact.
Her hair was long, healthy, glossy—the kind washed the night before, not hastily before stepping out. Her face carried little makeup; her lips were well-shaped, faintly sardonic even at rest. Her teeth were straight and white, almost irritatingly flawless.
She wore no jewelry except a simple wedding band on her right hand—a detail that revealed her understanding of the boundary between ornament and excess. She was beautiful. The kind of beauty not eroded by time, but sharpened by it.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d rather sit today…”
She sat the way someone does who has done it many times before—one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on her handbag, gaze fixed straight ahead. She was not seeking comfort. She was seeking his attention and his time—both of which she had paid for, properly. A session with Dr. Johnson was not cheap. Not everyone could afford five hundred pounds an hour.
“Of course. Whatever suits you best. What would you like to talk about today?”
Dr. Edward Johnson was a man in his late forties, well-proportioned, with short, carefully cut hair and a greying beard, meticulously maintained. He dressed simply: dark blue trousers, a grey blazer, and a white shirt buttoned to the second button.
He sat back in his armchair, his left ankle resting over his knee. In his right hand, he held a notebook; in his left, a thin black marker. He wrote his observations calmly, quietly, without haste. With the index finger of his left hand, routinely and without looking, he pressed a small button on the desk, activating the recorder. A red light flickered softly. From the very start of the session, every tone was being recorded.
He looked directly at her. He observed her as a patient—but, inevitably, also as an attractive woman. His gaze was steady, clinical. He assessed her clothing, hairstyle, jewelry, shoes. Yes, she was a beautiful, well-groomed woman, with a pleasant voice. He regarded her without excessive interest, but without indifference. He was accustomed to watching people, listening to them, analyzing them. It was his profession.
Dr. Johnson sat back in his chair, the notebook resting on his thigh. With his right hand, he wrote the date at the top of the page, beside it—her name. His gaze drifted briefly from her face to the hem of her skirt, then returned calmly to her eyes. He remained silent, waiting for her to begin.
Rebecca carefully crossed her legs and placed her handbag to the left of the armchair. As she removed her gloves, she laid them over the edge of the chair. Her fingers lingered on them a second longer than necessary. She lifted her eyes to him and thought that he looked particularly good today. For the past two years, she had come to him regularly for therapy, every Friday at 4:00 PM. It had become a weekly ritual through which she maintained her marriage. And herself.
“Well, Rebecca—what shall we talk about today? Has something specific happened that you’d like to discuss?” he repeated patiently, without raising his voice.
She smoothed her skirt over her knees and shifted slightly in the chair. She stared straight ahead, but not at him.
“About how the man who lives with me is turning into a complete stranger. I no longer recognize him.”
Johnson made a brief note, then looked at her directly, his expression unchanged.
“You mean your husband?”
Rebecca shook her head, almost with a hint of mockery. Her voice was slightly hoarse.
“I’m incredibly angry with him, Doctor. He lives with me. Sleeps beside me. Eats at the same table. But he isn’t there. It’s as if he’s no longer present…”
Johnson’s eyes remained on her as he lightly pressed the button on the desk once more. The recorder’s red light flickered.
“Did anything specific happen this week?” he asked. “What do you think caused this distance?”
Rebecca took a deep breath. She crossed one leg over the other, gripped the armrest with her hand, brushed her fingertips against her own palm, then returned her hand to the same place. She was restless.
“No. Nothing specific. It’s always the same, every week. It always starts with a kind of eerie silence. Not a big one. Not dramatic. The small kind—daily frictions. A question of mine that goes unanswered. A touch that isn’t returned. His gaze sliding past me. Every day. Consistently. He doesn’t notice me, Doctor. I simply don’t exist for him.”
Johnson wrote something briefly, then looked up. His eyes lingered on her profile for a few seconds too long.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
Rebecca gave a bitter smile, soundless. She turned her gaze toward the window.
“I have. He said it ‘wasn’t the time.’ That it ‘wasn’t the right moment.’ Always work. Always fatigue. Always something more important, something ahead of me, always something placed before me.”
She kept her eyes on the raindrops sliding down the glass.
“And then she appeared. Or they did. I don’t know anymore. I don’t even know when exactly it happened. She wrote to him again. I saw the message on his phone. I’m certain she’s his new lover.”
Dr. Johnson tightened his grip on the pen slightly, glanced at the notebook, but did not write. He only asked:
“What makes you so certain?”
Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest, leaning slightly forward.
“Some evenings he came home smelling of a new perfume. Again.”He said he’d been out to lunch with a colleague. And that very same day, I saw him getting into a taxi with a woman. A woman who was not his colleague—I know that for certain…”
She nervously straightened the hem of her skirt and pressed her lips together. She was furious. She took a deep breath and continued.
“When I asked him, ‘Who exactly were you with?’ his answer was: ‘Work.’”
Johnson lowered the notebook onto the arm of his chair. He set the pen aside. His hands folded in his lap.
“And how does that affect you?”
For the first time, Rebecca answered without hesitation.
“These lies are destroying me. They anger me. They hurt. But what offends me the most is that he thinks I’m stupid. Why doesn’t he just tell me what’s going on? Why does he insult me with lies?”
Johnson’s voice remained unchanged. Calm. Gentle.
“Why do you assume he’s lying? And tell me—do you believe you’ve always been honest with him? Think about it, Rebecca.”
She looked at him then, for the first time—directly into his eyes.
“What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?”
Johnson leaned forward slightly, his palms coming together, fingertips forming a bridge.
“Emotional absence. Yours, and his. Expectations that perhaps were never met. Or never voiced. Pressure. Criticism. Perhaps you began to look at him differently. Or he at you. What do you think?”
Rebecca slowly leaned back, placing her arms on the armrests.
“So this is my fault?”
“No. That’s not what I said. Not even close,” he replied quietly, but firmly. “I’m saying that in situations like this, both partners bear responsibility. Not just one spouse. Emotional infidelity often occurs long before the physical.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap. Her palm trembled slightly.
“I don’t know. Yes—maybe I made mistakes too. Maybe I was late. I don’t know anymore… I tried many times to talk to him, but I stopped. I felt it wasn’t the right time. I wasn’t even sure whether my suspicions were justified. This week, in particular, I felt it strongly. It’s possible that the text message was the trigger for me, Doctor. You know that feeling—when you don’t know, but you know.”
“What gives you that conviction?”
“Do you know what I did?”
“Tell me.”
“I replied to that text message. Directly. Clearly—in his name. I said I have a wife I love and no time for affairs. Whether that was right or not, I don’t know. But I was wounded like an animal—angry, and weak toward him…”
“So weakness justifies you?”
“No. But it explains me.”
Rebecca took her handbag from the chair beside her and placed it back in her lap. She gripped its edges as if trying to hold something inside.
Dr. Johnson straightened slightly in his armchair, lifting himself just enough before settling back again. His voice remained dry, calmly British.
“Forgive me… how long have you been married, Mrs. Rebecca?”
She exhaled through her nose.
“Two decades. Twenty-three years, to be precise.”
“Do you remember how—and why—you fell in love with your husband?” he asked, glancing at his notes without reading them.
She didn’t answer right away. She remembered those days when she had been deeply in love with her husband—madly, in fact. She lowered her gaze and brushed an invisible thread from her stocking.
“I fell in love with his calmness. His sense of responsibility. With the fact that he never chased after others. He was never loud. He never tried to prove himself—to anyone, least of all to me. He was always present, beside me. And he looked at me as if he understood me. As if I were the only thing he wanted in this world.”
“Do those qualities still exist in him?” Johnson asked, almost mechanically.
Rebecca shifted her shoulder back—not as an answer, but reflexively. Her voice trembled, though she concealed it by swallowing.
“Maybe. But they’re buried somewhere deep. Or perhaps I no longer even look for them. I’ve started noticing only what hurts.”
Johnson made a brief note. His gaze slid down her left arm, catching the moment when her finger scratched at the inner edge of her handbag. He didn’t comment; he simply observed her gestures.
“And why do you think your husband—as you put it—has lost interest in you?”
“Because I’ve become his routine. Like a cup. A book on a shelf. A picture on the wall. I’m here, and I don’t move. He sees me every day. And I see him. I know what he’ll say. I know when he’ll yawn. I know when he’ll lie. And he…”
She paused.
“He knows I’ll stay. That I’ll always be here.”
She stopped and looked at him.
“And that doesn’t worry him. Nothing about me really worries him anymore. But it doesn’t excite him either. There’s no romance left. No more honest conversations. No plans. No goals. No shared truths…”
Johnson sat upright, placing his palms flat on his knees.
“And have you ever created space for his truth?”
“I don’t understand your question, Dr. Johnson. What exactly do you mean?”
He replied evenly.
“I mean—did you ever make room, and time, for him to look at you and calmly say, without conflict: ‘I no longer know how I feel about you. I’m sorry you feel this way… but I need change. I want something different. Do you? What do you feel? What do you want?’”
Rebecca shifted, uncomfortable now for the first time. She adjusted her skirt, crossed her legs again, one over the other. Her gaze dropped.
“I didn’t want to know,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t want to talk about it. I was afraid of hearing it.”
“So we can agree, then,” he said evenly, “that the truth was known to you—but unacceptable.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a common pattern. Confrontation doesn’t happen when we discover something that troubles or burdens us, but only when we can no longer pretend that we don’t already know it.”
Rebecca turned her gaze back to the window. The sky above the city was gray, shapeless, pressed low over the rooftops of London. From this height, the street below looked narrow, as though it belonged to another world. Traffic moved slowly—red and white points of cars shifting in orderly lines, pausing now and then at intersections. To the right, the river appeared, dull and uniform, sliding beneath the bridge. Through the windows of other buildings—like a sequence of glass frames—shadows of people at desks were visible: movements, the glow of screens. In the distance, almost like a drawing lost in mist, St. Paul’s Cathedral rose.
She was tall and slender. Her stride was long yet gentle, almost floating, as if she moved through space without sound. She was a striking woman, beautiful in a quiet way—one that does not demand attention, but lingers in memory. And yet, in her posture and in her gaze, there was something withdrawn—not shy, but sad.
She sat in the chair opposite him. She did not lower her eyes. She sat upright, her hands folded in her lap. Only then did Dr. Johnson lift his gaze to her. She looked at him directly, without hesitation—her gaze quiet, but steady. The room was completely silent.
“Do you know what the worst part is, Doctor?”
Dr. Johnson answered simply, calmly.
“Tell me.”
Rebecca inhaled. She did not continue at once.
“That I still… feel something for him. When I look at him, standing there in front of me, something inside me still shifts. It isn’t hatred. It isn’t anger. It isn’t love either—at least not the kind I thought I knew how to recognize. I don’t know how to describe it. But it’s… something that’s always here. And it won’t leave.”
“Rebecca,” he said gently, “forgive me, but I need to ask you something.”
She nodded once, without speaking.
“When you say you still feel something—could you try to give that word a shape? Just one word that describes your state.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze returned from the window to him. Her hands were still in her lap, but now her fingers were interlaced. He noticed how her left thumb pressed against the nail of her right index finger—a small, persistent gesture.
“That isn’t a word,” she said quietly. “It’s a habit.”
He tilted his head slightly. The notebook remained open, the pen still.
“A habit,” he repeated.
Rebecca looked at him. This time, directly. Her gaze did not seek approval. She had spoken the truth. The silence remained between them. It was not uncomfortable. It was a kind of unspoken agreement.
“And what do you think,” he asked, “do you believe he feels the same way you do?”
Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers rigid.
“A habit?” she asked quietly.
Johnson nodded, watching her closely.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what he feels. I don’t ask him. He doesn’t ask me.”
A pause.
“Perhaps you feel the same,” Johnson said. “You’ve simply never said it out loud—to each other. But there are things that need to be recognized and separated. If it’s habit, perhaps it can fade. But if there is still hope somewhere beneath all of that—then it’s worth examining.”
She raised her eyes.
“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
Johnson sat more upright, placing his palms on his knees. His tone remained unchanged, but the sentence he spoke came more slowly.
“Perhaps you’re both tired. That doesn’t mean you have to remain that way.”
Rebecca adjusted her skirt. Crossed her legs again. She stared at the glass behind him, but saw nothing.
“How does that change?”
“By giving him space to speak his truth. And you, yours.”
“Truth?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “So that you can tell him: ‘I no longer know what I feel. I need something different. I want to change something. Do you?’”
Rebecca lowered her gaze. Quietly.
“I don’t want to be aware of that,” she said. “I don’t want to know it. And even less do I want to say it out loud to him.”
Dr. Johnson remained seated, composed, the notebook already half-filled.
“Forgive me, Rebecca… may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Does your husband know—is he aware—that you are emotionally unfulfilled?”
“In other words, have you told him that directly? Without silence. Without guessing. Without codes.”
“Not in that way.”
“How have you spoken to him about it, then?”
“With silence. Avoidance. Expectations.”
“And how was he supposed to understand that?”
“If he knows me,” she said, “then he knows what I’m like when I’m not satisfied with something.”
Johnson leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm on his knee.
“And is it possible that he doesn’t know you in that way?” he asked. “Or, to put it more simply—he doesn’t understand that kind of language? Like ninety percent of men in this world.”
Rebecca looked at him briefly, then turned her gaze away.
“When was the last time you asked your husband a direct, clear question—without any hidden meaning? Without accusation? Out of simple curiosity, perhaps.”
Rebecca leaned back, adjusted the handbag in her lap.
“I don’t remember.”
“What do you think happens to a man when he feels he’s no longer interesting, no longer needed, no longer valued?”
“He withdraws, I suppose.”
“Or he looks for a place where he is—or could be.”
“You mean, with another woman?”
“With someone who sees him.” He paused, then added quietly, “Sometimes a man isn’t looking only for passion. He’s looking for someone who believes he still matters.”
Rebecca tightened her hand around the handbag.
“So you’re saying I pushed him into this?”
“I’m not saying you’re to blame. I’m saying you weren’t the only participant in this breakdown.”
“But he’s the one who cheated. He’s the one who walked out.”
“And you,” he said calmly, “were the one who closed the door long before.”
Her gaze slid down the window—people moving below like dots.
“Do you know what’s worst, Doctor? What troubles me the most?” she said quietly, her voice trembling.
“What troubles you exactly, Rebecca?”
“That our erotic life has become work. Routine. Duty. A schedule.”
Dr. Johnson lowered his head slightly, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, then leaned back, watching her.
“And did you ever say that to your husband?”
“No. I was sure he knew. I thought he felt the same way. That I’d become boring to him.”
“And did you ever ask yourself how he feels—what he wants?” he continued. “Did you ever consider fulfilling one of his desires—or finally, Rebecca, one of yours? An erotic need, perhaps. Let’s call it that—reseasoning your erotic world.”
He paused.
“For instance, try doing that tonight. As an experiment. Allow yourself some imagination. Do something new. Wear new lingerie. Light candles. Invent something.”
Then, calmly:
“Let that be your homework until next week. Can you do that?”
Rebecca stood and slowly walked toward the window. With her fingers, she touched the frame of the glass.
“All right, Doctor. I agree. I’ll think about it,” she said. “I have nothing to lose…”
Johnson took the bottle of water from the table and poured himself a glass. He looked at her.
“Would you like some?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Do you think…” she began, then paused, continuing softly, almost under her breath. “Do you think he still loves me?”
Johnson didn’t interrupt her. He waited for her to finish.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” she added. “Trying?”
He set the pen aside.
“I can only tell you what I think,” he said. “But what matters far more is what you would think—if you were in his place.”
Rebecca looked at him.
“I don’t know. I hope it isn’t already too late…” she said quietly.
“Then perhaps that is precisely where you should begin,” he replied. “Try looking at things from another perspective, Rebecca. It isn’t that difficult. But there’s something else important I should tell you—something that might help you find the answer to your question: whether your husband still loves you.”
He paused.
“A man who doesn’t love doesn’t stay. He leaves.”
Her gaze drifted down to the notebook on his desk. She shifted her hands, pulling them deeper into her sleeves.
“So you think that…?” she began softly.
“I think he still loves you,” he said.
She remained calm. Hearing this mattered to her. His voice had a soothing effect, giving her strength to go on. She continued to listen to his words through the haze of emotion forming in her chest.
“Rebecca, perhaps he simply doesn’t know how to show it—in his own way. But the feeling is there. Forgotten, suppressed, buried beneath everything else. You have to give him the opportunity.”
Rebecca nodded. Gently—more to herself than to him. Then she glanced at the clock behind his shoulder.
“Oh, Doctor… time flies in your office. Is it really that late already?”
Johnson smiled faintly.
“I hear that often. Forty-seven minutes exactly. We’ve gone a little over, but don’t worry. And don’t forget your homework.”
She rose quickly from the chair, draped her coat over her arm, and picked up her bag. She looked at him once more, with a small, polite smile.
“See you next Friday—at the same time?”
Johnson nodded.
“The same time. Four o’clock.”
She opened the door softly, without a sound, and stepped out with a long stride. The door closed behind her, and he remained alone, his back still lightly resting against the armchair. He didn’t move right away. For a few moments, he looked at the door, then at the notebook on his desk. The page was half-filled, but he added nothing more. He placed the pen beside him on the table. With his finger, he pressed the button on the recorder and stopped the recording.
He stood up slowly. His movement wasn’t weary—more habitual. He crossed the room in a few steps, opened the door of a low cabinet, and took out a bottle of Lagavulin 16. He didn’t look at the label; he knew exactly what he was taking. The glass was heavy, with a thick base. He poured a finger of whisky, closed the bottle, and returned it to its place. He remained lightly leaning against the desk, the glass in his hand, his gaze drifting resignedly toward the window.
Bridges. Lights. Nothing new. Traffic in the distance flowed evenly. The rain had stopped, but the glass was still wet. He took a sip—not so much to drink as to change the taste in his mouth, to break the silence that lingered in the room after she had left.
Then he heard a discreet knock at the door. Twice. Softly. He didn’t flinch. He simply set the glass down on the table, unhurried.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened. His secretary stood in the doorway, a notepad in her hand. She didn’t speak at once. She looked at him, as if checking whether it was the right moment.
“Dr. Johnson, would you like me to schedule your wife again for next Friday at 4:00 PM?”
He glanced briefly, routinely, at the schedule.
“Yes, please.”
The secretary wrote it down, nodded, and closed the door. He remained where he was. The glass was still within reach, and he extended his fingers toward it, almost thirstily. He took a long sip and inhaled deeply. THE END
