Dr. Harper listened the way some people breathe — steadily, without effort, without judgment.
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, turning the air gold. Elliot sat on the couch, his notebook balanced on his knee, the faint smell of coffee lingering between them.
"You went to your parents' graves," Dr. Harper said softly, almost like it was a question.
Elliot nodded. "Yes. On Friday."
He paused, the memory rising slow and clear — the quiet air of the cemetery, the crunch of leaves, the weight that had lifted when he'd finally spoken out loud.
"It was the first time I'd left the apartment in two years," he continued. "It was… difficult. But I'm glad I went."
Dr. Harper's mouth curved into a gentle smile. "That's an enormous step, Elliot. You faced something deeply painful, and you did it on your own terms. That takes courage."
Elliot shrugged slightly, looking down at his hands. Compliments made him uneasy. "Noah helped."
"Of course," Dr. Harper said. "Support makes bravery possible. And the coffee shop?"
Elliot blinked. "That was different. Just down the street." He hesitated, almost embarrassed. "But it felt… good. Ordinary."
"That's important too," Dr. Harper said. "Grief isolates, trauma isolates — and when we start reclaiming small pieces of normalcy, it's like the world opens a little."
Elliot nodded, the quiet pride of that truth warming him for a moment — before the memory of his argument with Val flickered through and dimmed it again.
"There's something else," he said, voice quieter now. "I… messed up."
Dr. Harper's expression didn't change, just softened around the eyes. "Tell me."
Elliot hesitated. Words always felt clumsy when he had to talk about emotions. He opened his notebook, half using it as a shield, half hoping it might give him courage.
"My neighbour," he started, "Val — we argued."
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the page. "She… she had someone over. A man. I saw them through the peephole. And I just— I got this awful feeling. Like something was going to happen. Like she wasn't safe."
He swallowed. "So, the next morning, I said something. Told her it was dangerous to let a man stay over."
He winced. "She got angry. Said I was watching her, that it was none of my business."
Dr. Harper nodded slowly. "And how did that make you feel?"
Elliot gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Like an idiot."
He stared down at his hands. "I wasn't trying to judge her. I just — I worry. About people. About bad things happening. But when I try to say it, it comes out wrong. Too blunt. Too… controlling."
He struggled to find the words, then added, "I think I hurt her feelings. And mine."
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator. Dr. Harper leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
"Elliot," he said gently, "you have a very strong sense of responsibility. It comes from love — from fear, too. You've experienced a sudden loss, something that made the world feel unsafe. So now, when someone else might be in danger, your brain goes into protection mode. It's instinctive."
Elliot frowned. "But it makes people angry. I don't want to control anyone."
"No," Dr. Harper agreed. "And you're not trying to. But what you feel and what you say sometimes move at different speeds. Your emotions react before your words can filter them."
Elliot tilted his head slightly, thinking. "So I should just… not say anything?"
Dr. Harper smiled faintly. "Not exactly. You can speak, but give yourself space first. Think of it like a pause button. When something feels overwhelming — fear, frustration, even care — stop. Take a breath. Ask yourself: What am I feeling right now? What do I actually want to communicate?"
Elliot's brows furrowed. "That's… not easy."
"No," Dr. Harper said. "But it's a skill. And skills can be learned."
He leaned back, giving Elliot a moment to absorb it. "People who experience the world intensely — who feel too much, notice too much — often struggle to translate emotion into words others understand. Especially people on the autism spectrum."
Elliot glanced up sharply at that, uncertain. "You think that's why I'm like this?"
"I think you've lived your whole life processing the world differently," Dr. Harper said gently. "You've taught yourself how to adapt, how to blend in, but that effort costs you. It can make communication exhausting, especially when emotions are involved."
Elliot looked down again, his throat tightening. "My teachers used to call me difficult," he said quietly. "I never knew why I said the wrong things. Or why I couldn't just… understand people like everyone else seemed to."
"That must have been very lonely," Dr. Harper said.
"It was."
A small, almost imperceptible admission, but it carried weight.
Dr. Harper nodded, the silence between them respectful. "Elliot, your way of seeing the world isn't wrong. It's just different. And part of what we'll work on is giving you tools to bridge that difference — to express what you mean rather than what anxiety makes you say."
Elliot took a deep breath. "So next time I want to say something like that, I should… pause."
"Yes," Dr. Harper said. "Pause, breathe, and check your intent. Ask yourself: 'Am I speaking from fear, or from care?' Then choose words that come from care."
Elliot gave a soft huff that might've been a laugh. "That sounds simple when you say it."
"It never is," Dr. Harper said with a small smile. "But you've already started. You recognised the pattern. You regret the hurt. That's awareness, and awareness is the beginning of change."
Elliot sat back against the couch, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. "I wish I could apologise without making it worse."
"Then maybe start with understanding her side first," Dr. Harper said. "Empathy isn't about agreeing — it's about recognising someone else's fear or pain. When you can see that, the words will come more easily."
Elliot nodded slowly, thinking it through. "So I wait. And think. And… breathe."
"Exactly."
The therapist smiled and stood, gathering his notebook. "You're making remarkable progress, Elliot. Don't let one argument convince you otherwise."
As Dr. Harper left, Elliot walked him to the door. The apartment felt lighter again — not because anything had been fixed, but because something finally made sense.
After the door closed, Elliot stood in the quiet for a long moment, letting the stillness settle.
He walked back to the table, he opened his notebook, and wrote down the words Dr. Harper had said:
"Pause. Breathe. Ask what you're really feeling."
Then, underneath it, in smaller letters:
"Next time — speak from care."
He sat back, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.
It wasn't perfect. But it was something.
And for the first time since the argument, the silence around him didn't feel quite so heavy.