Chapter 2
2 AM. I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Cody's words "you're no longer my doctor" playing on repeat in my head like some damn earworm.
I roll over, trying to force myself to sleep, but those memories keep flashing back like movie scenes. Two years ago, our first meeting - I still remember how he looked sitting on that blue couch in the clinic.
'He looked like a ticking time bomb ready to explode.'
I close my eyes, and the memories flood back.
Two years ago, Seattle Mental Health Clinic, 3 PM
"I don't need a fucking therapist!" Cody's voice exploded in the therapy room, his fists clenched, looking like a caged animal.
He was the angriest initial patient I'd ever seen. He refused to sit down, refused to fill out assessment forms, refused to even make eye contact with me.
"So what do you need?" I set down my notepad and looked directly at him. "To keep dying in your nightmares?"
He froze. Most therapists would have used a gentle approach to calm him down, but I chose direct confrontation.
"You don't understand what I've been through." His voice dropped but remained hostile.
"Then tell me."
That was the moment I saw the vulnerability in his eyes. It wasn't anger - it was fear. Fear of re-experiencing trauma, the desperate need to be understood, and fear of trusting another person.
'I should have realized then that he needed more than just professional help.'
Looking back now, I treated him differently from the start. With other patients, I'd follow standard protocol, but with Cody, I always wanted to do more.
I get up and walk to my desk, pulling out that professional ethics handbook from the drawer. Moonlight streams through the curtains, making those regulatory clauses look particularly harsh.
But my thoughts drift back to that afternoon six months later.
A year and a half ago, Victrola Coffee outside the clinic, 5 PM
"I watched my teammate in front of me..." Cody's voice started trembling as he stared at his coffee cup. "That explosion... I should have..."
He stopped, tears welling up in his eyes.
That was the first time he truly opened up to me. Six months of therapy, and we'd finally broken through his psychological defenses.
"You're brave, Cody." I reached out and gently touched his hand. "It takes enormous courage to share this."
That touch crossed professional boundaries, I knew it. But seeing him in such pain, I couldn't maintain distance.
That night at 9 PM, I violated every rule and called him.
"Are you okay? I was worried after you shared such heavy experiences today."
Silence for a few seconds on the other end, then Cody laughed - the first time I'd heard his genuine laughter.
"Do doctors care about patients after hours?"
"Good doctors do." I lied. Good doctors don't do this. Professional boundaries exist for a reason.
'But I told myself then it was just extra care.'
I open the ethics handbook, those black-and-white clauses seeming to mock me.
"Therapists must maintain professional boundaries and avoid dual relationships."
"Therapists must not use professional advantage to develop personal relationships."
I'd violated every single one.
The worst was that session a year ago. That damn hug.
A year ago, clinic therapy room, 4 PM
Cody was having a severe panic attack. His breathing was rapid, sweat soaked his shirt, and he was trembling in his chair.
"I can't control it, Eina... I'm seeing those images again..." His voice was shattered like glass.
I should have used breathing techniques, should have maintained professional distance, should have guided him through relaxation exercises.
But I didn't.
I stood up, walked over to him, and wrapped him in my arms.
"I'm here, you're safe." I felt him trembling in my embrace, smelled the faint scent of shampoo in his hair.
'This isn't therapy,' I realized clearly in that moment. 'This is... love?'
His breathing gradually steadied, pressed against my chest. We stayed like that, far longer than any professional standard would allow.
When he calmed down, he looked up at me.
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Not from professional achievement, but from a woman's most primitive protective instinct and love for a man.
"Damn it, what the hell am I doing?" I mutter to the handbook, my voice sharp in the empty apartment.
I took advantage of his vulnerable state. I used my professional advantage. I made a recovering patient dependent on me, then naively thought that was love.
My phone lights up on the nightstand - a late-night news alert. I pick it up and check the time: 2:47 AM.
'What is Cody doing right now? Did he already sense my emotional changes?'
Maybe his words "you're no longer my doctor" weren't a cruel rejection, but protection for both of us. Maybe he understood better than I did where our boundaries should be.
'How much of those two years of treatment progress was built on the wrong foundation?'
I remember what his mother Maria said to me at the charity gala: "Dr. Eina, we'll forever be grateful for your professional help with Cody." Professional help. She emphasized those words.
Maybe everyone could see more clearly than I could.
I close the handbook and walk back to bed. Outside, Seattle's nightscape still blazes with lights - this city never truly sleeps. Just like me tonight.
Cody recovered, that's a fact. He reintegrated into society, found work, had fewer nightmares, and his panic attacks were under control. But what was the cost? My professional integrity? His trust in therapists?
'Or the real relationship we could have had?'
But I push that thought down as soon as it surfaces. Real relationships shouldn't be built on power imbalances. They shouldn't be built on one person's pain and another person's professional responsibility.
I need to make a decision.
Cody used those words to draw a line under our relationship. Now it's my turn to face reality.
