The session began like any other, with me sitting across from my psychologist, pouring out the tangled thoughts I’d been wrestling with for weeks. I confessed my struggles with fidelity, how my openness and attraction to others felt at odds with the expectations placed upon me. I expected him to offer advice on control, discipline, or boundaries—something to help me “fix” myself.

Instead, he leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Your actions aren’t wrong,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “Some people are naturally more open in their capacity to love. It’s part of who you are, and it doesn’t need to be judged.”

His words struck a chord in me, dissolving the shame I’d carried for so long. For the first time, I felt seen, understood on a level I hadn’t thought possible. As I let his words sink in, he surprised me further. “Perhaps,” he began cautiously, “we could explore those feelings together. I’d like to get to know you beyond this space.”

His offer left me stunned, but the way he framed it made it sound natural, even logical. Here was someone who truly understood me, who embraced me for who I was. Flattered and curious, I agreed, my heart racing as the session took an unexpected turn. The atmosphere in the room shifted, and before I fully realized what was happening, our connection became physical, right there in the office.

In the moment, it felt freeing—an affirmation of everything he’d told me. But as I left his office, my thoughts turned to doubt. Had I been too trusting, too eager to believe his reassurances? Was he genuinely helping me understand myself, or had he taken advantage of my vulnerability under the guise of therapy?

The questions haunt me, their answers elusive. Was this an act of liberation or manipulation? The boundaries between professional care and personal desire have blurred, leaving me questioning not just him, but myself.