How to Human 101

First Day On The Job

I walked up to the building and immediately knew something was wrong. Not wrong-wrong—more like "someone rearranged the planet while I wasn't looking" wrong. The facade of the office had changed. New paint. New logo. Somehow, the plants looked aggressive. And the door handle was inexplicably sticky.

I groaned, checking my bag for the twenty-first time. Monthly therapy. Supposedly.

I pushed the door open. The fluorescent lights buzzed like they were mocking me. They didn't hum politely. They SCREAMED. Every part of my brain screamed back. A strong whiff of coffee hit me in the face like an unwelcome high-five from someone I barely know.

And the reception area. Oh God, the reception area. Every chair was new, every poster was motivational in a way that seemed personally threatening. One read: "You are capable of amazing things." I do not feel capable. I feel like a soggy sock.

I froze in the doorway, debating. Stand and risk dizziness under the fluorescent death rays? Or sit and suffer the itchy chair from hell? My life has never been more high stakes.

I chose... neither. I hovered for exactly three seconds, then gently lowered myself into the chair, rocking slightly, like a human trying to cope with all incoming sensory aggression.

The chair was itchy. Every fiber clawing at my skin. My pants now felt like sandpaper.

I tried to focus on the waiting room magazines. I wasn't supposed to be here anyway. My appointment was in fifteen minutes. My therapist had probably... I don't know... fallen into a vortex? Taken a spontaneous vacation? Been abducted by aliens? All equally likely.

Then a voice.

"You must be the new therapist!"

I blinked. Slowly. My brain stalled. Process: ERROR. Question: What did you just say?

"I-I mean... no," I said, but it came out as a squeak that sounded like a dying mouse.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch. Didn't give me the chance to clarify. She smiled at me like I had just passed some invisible hiring test.

"Great! You'll be starting today, then. Let me show you the schedule."

I could feel my pulse in my ears. This could not be happening. I didn't want to be the new therapist. I wanted... I don't know... to sit quietly, maybe stare at the wall, maybe gently rock myself some more. Maybe go home and hide under a blanket and eat cheese straight from the package.

But apparently that was not on the table today.

I nodded. The motion was automatic. My inner monologue, however, was screaming:

"Jennifer. You are not a therapist. You do not know what you are doing. This is a nightmare. Why is this happening."

I followed her toward the office like a human-shaped puppet. My brain kept repeating the mantra: Just... follow... instructions... which I do not have...

The receptionist put a hand on my back.

I don't like it. Why is she even touching me? There is no emergency. I am not lost. I am walking just fine on my own.

She leads me down a narrow hall to an office at the very end. The walls are too close. The carpet pattern is loud. My brain catalogs everything whether I ask it to or not.

The person inside the office is angry. That much is immediately obvious. Their posture is rigid. Jaw clenched. Arms crossed like they're holding themselves together by force.

But I am also angry.

I quickly walk into the office. I can feel the receptionist and my client staring at me as I cross the room and rearrange the furniture.

Chair moved. Desk shifted slightly to the left. Lamp rotated. Window blinds adjusted exactly three notches.

There. Now I'm not angry.

The receptionist clears her throat. "I'll, uh—send them in," she says, retreating like she has just witnessed something illegal.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

The angry person sits down slowly, eyes following my every movement like I might rearrange them next. I sit too—my chair, the Correct Chair, the one facing the door but not directly under the light.

We stare at each other.

I wait.
They wait.

This is probably my cue to say something. I search my brain. There is nothing.

"So," the client snaps, leaning forward. "Are you going to start or what?"

I blink. Once. Twice.

"Yes," I say. That feels safe. Noncommittal. True in theory.

They sigh loudly, rubbing their face. "I don't even know why I'm here. This is pointless."

I nod.
"It might be," I agree.

They freeze.

"What?"

"I said it might be pointless," I clarify. "Statistically, some therapy is ineffective depending on compatibility and expectations."

They stare at me. Mouth slightly open. Angry, but... confused now. That's different.

"...You're not like my last therapist."

"I am aware," I say. "I am unlike most people."

That seems to do something. Their shoulders drop a fraction. Not relaxed-just... less defensive.

They talk then. Not because I asked-because the silence became unbearable and they needed to fill it. Complaints. Work stress. People not listening. Being told to "calm down" when that is the least calming phrase known to humanity.

I listen. Actually listen. It's easy when I'm not trying to perform.

At some point they stop and look at me. "You're very... quiet."

"I am gathering information," I say.

"...Is that good?"

"I don't know yet."

Another pause. Then, unexpectedly, they laugh. Just once. Short and surprised, like it slipped out without permission.

"Huh," they say. "That's... weirdly comforting."

I make a note in my head.

Silence does not mean failure.

When the session ends, they stand by the door, hesitating. "Same time next week?"

I nod again. "If the building still exists."

They smile. A real one.

After they leave, I sit alone in the office, heart pounding, brain buzzing.

I did not scream.
I did not flee.
No one cried excessively.

I think—I think—that counts as success.

I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I still have no idea what I'm doing.

But apparently... neither does anyone else.