“Hello, Wendy.”

“Hello,” the brunette politely greets her psychiatrist back. She settles on the chair comfortably and begins to count the number of rectangular objects there are in the room.

“How’s school?”

“It’s fine,” Wendy simply states. Her gaze flickers to Irene, who is busy jotting down notes.

It puzzles Wendy that Irene keeps taking down everything. Even when Wendy refuses to utter a word, Irene will still jot something in her notebook.

When they first had their session several months ago, Wendy was adamant on keeping shut. Irene’s questions went unanswered, but her hand never stopped moving, writing god knows what, Wendy thought. That sight riled the brunette up. She had even screamed at Irene, forcing the psychiatrist to stop writing because she felt that there wasn’t even anything to write. It went on for a few more sessions. And, eventually, Wendy got used to it.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother her every now and then.

“Just fine?” Irene asks.

Wendy doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks up and stares at the circular window above.

The room they are in is small, but it has a really high ceiling. The sunlight filtering in provides a natural light for the room. There is a ladder which leads up to the window and Wendy has always wanted to try climbing up the ladder, but Irene has never allowed her to, claiming that the ladder is only there for display.

“Have you heard about the story?”

Irene puts down her pen and cranes her neck to face Wendy. “What story?”

“About the mentally ill patient and his psychiatrist.”

Irene has sort of an idea with regards to what Wendy is talking about, but she wants the girl to continue talking, so she inquires, “Are you willing to enlighten me?”

Wendy nods, and begins, “A psychiatrist brought his patient to a dark room with a window. Something like this room. The psychiatrist turns on his torch, shining it towards the window and asked his patient if he could use the light to crawl up to the window. His patient said no. So he thought his patient was already cured. That was, until his patient said, “What if you switch off the torch while I’m climbing up?””

“So what do you think of the story, Wendy?” Irene asks as she holds onto her pen once more.

Wendy furrows her eyebrows. “I think it’s sickening.”

“Why?”

The brunette’s upper lip curls in disdain. “Why would you mess with an already sick person like that?”

“So you’re saying the psychiatrist did wrong?”

Wendy sighs. “I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“The social stigma. The society is such a hypocrite. There’s all these movements going around to reduce social stigma towards the mentally ill, but those with psychiatric records can’t even get into certain courses in universities. And what’s more abominable is that it’s the board of educated directors who won’t accept students like me…” Wendy trails off as her gaze falls to the floor. “You would think these educated people will be more…” Wendy pauses as she can’t think of the appropriate word to use. She hates it everytime this happens- knowing that the word is floating around somewhere in her head yet she’s still unable form the word on her lips no matter how hard she wrecks her brain. “Such high IQ people have nowadays, but their EQ stinks worse than my dog’s .”

“Language, Wendy,” Irene gently reminds her patient.

Wendy shrugs. “Everyone s. I don’t understand why you’re telling me to be careful with my use of language when perfectly normal people curse like there’s no tomorrow. Why the double standards?” she mutters, as she continues to search for more rectangular objects to count.

“It’s nothing about double standards, Wendy. Let’s just practise some courtesy, shall we?”

“Tell that to those who’re living without mental issues,” Wendy responds distastefully. “There’s nine rectangular objects in this room," she adds, frowning. She dislikes odd numbers. It bothers her that she can't find another rectangular object to make the total count an even one. "I think you should start putting in more objects of different shapes.”

Irene chuckles. How Wendy swiftly changes the subject without even realising it amuses her. “What shapes do you suggest then?”

“Snow angel.”

An unconventional answer.

“Snow angel?”

“Yeah, snow angel. I think that would be nice.” Wendy looks at Irene and notices that the psychiatrist is drinking her cup of coffee. “Coffee contains caffeine and it increases your alertness.”

Irene puts down her drink and smiles. “Thank you for sharing that fact.”

“Do you have another patient after this?”

“Nope. Why?”

Wendy doesn’t respond again. Instead, she runs a hand along the edge of the desk. “Has a psychiatrist ever been romantically involved with their patient?”

“It’s against our code of conduct.”

“You’re not even answering my question.”

Irene lets out a sigh. “It’s really rare. Like one or two cases.”

“But in Kill Me Heal Me, the psychiatrist falls in love with her patient.”

“That’s just in dramas, Wendy.”

The brunette purses her lips as her eyebrows bent inward at the same time. “I don’t understand people who criticise a show for being unrealistic. It’s a fiction, for a reason. We watch shows to escape reality, why do you want these dramas or films to mirror reality? Hell, if you love realism so much, go live your own life instead of watching fictitious series.”

Irene cracks an impressed smile. She loves having such conversations with Wendy. “Well you see, some people prefer these shows to be realistic because they can relate to the difficulties the characters face.”

Wendy keeps quiet for a short moment. “I guess your explanation makes sense.”

“I’m happy to know you accept my explanation.”

“I like the fact that you seek my acknowledgement," Wendy grins. "But I guess the only reason is because you want me to keep coming back right? Since one session is $300. And you have a number of patients. You must be filthy rich."

"I'm not that crazy over money, Wendy."

"You're only saying that because you've accumulated enough wealth,” Wendy replies. Her tone, however, isn’t accusatory.

"A bit more trust and a little less skepticism would help, you know," Irene tells the brunette.

"Sorry," Wendy says