"Do you love her, Julian?"
I reflexively ask my psychologist what he said, even though after a second I process his words and start thinking about my answer.
He asks me again.
"...I do. But that doesn't matter. She doesn't want me."
He looks at me, squinting in thought, past the invasive sunbeams creeping in. He asks if I believe I can fall in love with someone else. I'm tempted to play dumb, but know that it won't arrest the questions from ricocheting around my lobes.
"Maybe. Probably. It would be easier if she wasn't around me—if I wasn't in the same city, or going to the same school. Maybe then she'd fade to me."
He asks what I would do if she did want me.
"What's the point in asking myself that? She doesn't. I doubt she ever will."
He says it's worth knowing my sentiments regardless of their probability, and probes again.
"...I guess I would have to reciprocate—how couldn't I, after all my complaining and whinging about not being able to have her?"
"I think, more than that, I would need to know if we could work. Otherwise I'd always wonder."
I lean back in my seat, and staring intensely at the mossy carpet, stroke my chin, thoughts receding from my mouth and into my skull.
"Never say always" the Paranoia murmurs.
"You never know," he confirms, and I nod quietly and a frown creases my forehead.
-M
