This is almost as scary as being in flight.

It’s stupid, I know, I feel like such a silly girl. Lots of people seek out therapy every day of their lives, for many valid reasons, and nothing bad happens to them. But my reason admittedly feels a little…

Pathetic.

Maybe it’s just my brain’s coping mechanism. Maybe this avoidance is just a way for me to not face my fears.

But that just won’t do!

I’m done being ruled by my subconscious. I hate what it’s made me into. Any normal girlfriend would have been relieved, when Mark got told he’s been selected for the student exchange programme.

A year in Paris? Sounds like a dream.

Of course, separation is always hard, but it’s not like he’s gone to the moon or anything. We keep in touch on a daily basis, watch TV shows together in video chat, stuff like that.

Besides: any normal girlfriend, aside from the vicarious joy for her beloved’s opportunity, would be tremendously thrilled at the idea of paying him a visit in the City of Lights.

Any normal girlfriend who’s not mortally afraid of flying, that is…

I paled when he first got the news. That’s so shameful, it was so selfish of me. In that split second, purely by instinct, I wasn’t thinking of him. The first thing that crossed my mind wasn’t, oh, I’m so happy for you, my love. It was a self-centered, cowardly realisation: I will have to fly.

I should have dwelt on his hopes, his ambitions, or his happiness, but I didn’t. Instead, my first thought went to me. Me, me, me, and the knot in my guts. The entirely self-absorbed thought that an obstacle was being put between Mark and I.

That… ashames me. Profoundly so.

I want to be a better person, a better girlfriend. I never want to have such self-centered thoughts in the future.

I don’t want to be selfish. Not anymore.

And so I muster my courage, and walk into the reception area. It’s an immaculate space, smelling like industrial disinfectant, the chairs empty – there’s only another person in the room. A fairly stereotypical blond receptionist, a wisp of a girl with a somewhat vacant expression, flashing a vapid smile at me.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Zara Sutton,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, my hands behind my back so that she won’t see them tremble. “I have an appointment with Dr Temple?"

The woman nods and checks her computer. "Yes, she’s expecting you! Go on through this way, please."

I whisper my thanks and nod, making my way down the hall to the therapist's office. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. "Come in," a voice calls out.

I take a deep sigh.

There are times – not many, but a few – where you can somehow feel you’re about to take a life changing action. That there is a before and after, with no going back. Somehow, I feel that this is mine. This is where a new road begins… hopefully at the end of it, I’ll be the girlfriend Mark deserves.

Someone who’s not afraid. Someone who’s not selfish.

I push the door open and step inside.

Dr Temple is sitting behind a desk, looking at me over her glasses. She's wearing a black suit, and her jet-black hair is tied back in a tight bun. A very professional look, though it’s not what strikes me the most about her.

She’s young. She looks almost unreal, her skin unblemished, her green eyes clever and attentive, and she looks impossibly gorgeous. It’s a stupid thought to have, but it’s almost like she’s out of place being a therapist, and should have been an actress instead, or a model.

"Hello, Zara! So happy you decided to come.”

Wow. Her voice… sounds beautiful.

I throw her a puzzled look, and Dr Temple must pick up on it, because she waves her hand as she chuckles. “Oh, yes, it happens. With hypnotherapy, you never know… so many cancel at the last second. Silly, silly superstitions. Please, take a seat."

There is something almost musical about the way she says that. I don’t know much about therapy, but liking your therapist’s voice must count for something, right? Hers is vibrant and deep. The words sound measured, as if an impossible amount of thought has gone into it.

I’ll like listening to her, if nothing else.

I sit down in the chair across from her, my hands fidgeting as I’m unsure what to do, or how to even begin. The doctor seems to contemplate me for a moment, but that just adds to my metaphorical paralysis.

A dreaded thought begins to rise from the depths of my mind. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m not saying anything because I have nothing intelligent to say.

Just when I’m about to decide that I should go, she speaks up. “Alright, Zara,” she says, not unkindly. “What brings you here? What would you like to achieve with the help of therapy?”

Wow, her voice is so soothing. I gulp, trying to suppress the anxiety, the fear, the sense of shame. This is how the road begins, right? With a single step. “Well, D-Doctor Temple, I…”

“No no no,” she says gently. “Just call me Mira. Let’s keep things friendly and informal here, okay?”

“Uh.. sure,” I say. If it’s meant to reassure me, I don’t think it’s going to work, but I appreciate the gesture. “See, Do – Mira, I want to overcome my… fear of flying.”

Mira leans forward, her hands supporting her chin, listening as I detail my situation, Mark’s move to Paris, and my irrationally deep and frantic fear of planes. Her eyes dart back and forward as she listens, now narrowing, then widening, in reaction to my confessions. I don’t know how to explain this, but this woman just… radiates intelligence.

She takes it all in, thoughtfully, and then opens a file, taking notes. She seems genuinely interested and sympathetic, and I sit up a little straighter at that. More and more, my fears begin to dissipate. I think I can understand why she comes so warmly recommended.

Eventually, I run out of words. Mira keeps scribbling furiously, however, the scratching of pen on paper now the only sound filling the awkward silence.

After a while, Mira looks up at me. "I'm going to be honest with you, Zara. Fear-based requests are not my specialty. I normally deal with more… complex issues. But I can see how important this is to you, so I'll make an exception. I will take you on as a client."

I feel a sense of relief wash over me, my muscles releasing tension, like I’ve been immersed in a warm bath. I didn’t even know I was holding this much in! "Thank you so much," I say. "I really appreciate it."

Mira nods. "However, I must warn you. This is not a quick fix. It will take time and multiple sessions for you to overcome your fear of flying. Are you willing to commit to that?"

I hesitate for a moment, but then nod. One step along the road, right? One step, and then another, until the job is done. "Yes, I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

Mira smiles. "Good. Then let's get started."

“How does this work?” I ask, with a degree of trepidation.

“Well,” Mira says, leaning back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Therapy is, by definition, goal-oriented. Depending on the specialty, anyway. You might feel inexperienced and lost, but trust me, it really helps when a patient comes here with a clear, well-defined goal. Yours is as clear as it gets.”

She lists three items on her long, slender fingers.

“You don’t want to be afraid. You don’t want to be selfish. You want to overcome your fear of flying. Three goals. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” I say, sheepishly. “But what I meant to ask was…”

Before I can continue, Mira nods enthusiastically. “I told you, that’s a great start. We can definitely establish a therapeutic pact on that basis. Three goals.”

“No, I…” I say, fumbling to find the right words, my eyes travelling to every corner of the room except her. “I mean, thanks for that, it’s good to know. But I wanted to ask about, uhm… how it works, in regards to, uhm…”

“Ah, let me guess,” Mira says, with a hint of a playful smirk rippling across her face. “The hypnosis?”

The silence that follows that last word is deafening. Now that she’s said it out loud, it’s almost as if propriety has been breached. Like we’ve stopped leaving the hypno prefix to hypnotherapy in the realm of the obliquely implied, and dragged it into the light, where it can no longer be ignored.

“Yes,” I say at last. “I mean, I’ve heard about medical hypnosis of course, and I… obviously it must work, it’s just… it all sounds a little…”

“Far-fetched?” Mira giggles, and her laughter sounds very pure. “This isn’t like in the movies, Zara, believe me. Or in some of those… stories… you can read on the internet. Enthralling as they are.”

I nod along, even though I’m not sure which stories she’s referring to, or what could possibly make a story enthralling.

“I’m not going to pull out a pocket watch and hypnotise you with it,” she says, with another bout of giggling. “Nor am I going to brainwash you or anything. I’m afraid real-world hypnosis is much more mundane. I could try and explain, but… perhaps it’s best if you just see for yourself.”

I nod. I can feel my heart racing with anticipation and fear. Mira seems calm and collected, but I can sense an undercurrent of something else in her demeanour, something that makes me feel… small.

God, she really is young. A few years older than me, at most. Obviously it’s reassuring to feel like I’m in good hands, but… some of my insecurities, my dear old friends, begin to creep back up again.

She looks so supremely confident. I bet she’s the sort of girlfriend that would never let down her boyfriend if he got the chance to go to Paris. I bet she lives in fear or nothing. She must be earning so much money, so proud of her professional success, while I’m still stuck in academic limbo, wrecked by insecurity and a constant feeling of inadequacy.

Maybe, after we’re done with the flying, I can ask her to help me with that, too…

Mira makes an exaggerated show of leaning back into the chair, theatrically crossing one leg over the other – her shapely thigh, complimented by the dark pants, barely visible behind the edge of the desk. Unbidden, a part of me thinks of her as a queen, surveying her domain: her movements look almost regal.

"Close your eyes, Zara, and take a deep breath," she instructs me. Her voice is low and soothing, inviting, but also reasonable. How could you not listen to such a voice?

"Relax your muscles, from your toes, allllll the way up to your scalp," Mira continues. "Imagine a warm, comforting light washing over you, relaxing you more and more with each passing moment."

I follow her instructions, focusing on my breathing and the warm, comforting sensation that seems to spread throughout my body. Mira's voice is like a lullaby. It rocks me gently, grounds me. It explains, but also soothes. It guides, but also reassures…

I do as she says, and as I exhale, I feel the tension in my body begin to dissipate. She speaks for an interminably long time, and I feel like I’m on a bus, head lolling back and forth, standing at the gates of sleep, but not quite there yet… not awake, not in slumber, but a third thing, with no name, both beautiful and a little creepy…

"You're doing very well, Zara," Mira says, her voice barely above a whisper now. “So good. So responsive.”

The praise spreads through me, a wonderful warmth that touches something within me I didn’t even know existed. God, who knew I had  "I want you to picture yourself on an airplane. You're sitting in your seat, feeling calm and relaxed. You know that you're safe and that nothing bad will happen."

As she speaks, I can see the image in my mind's eye. I'm sitting in a plane, feeling calm and safe, the gentle hum of the engines lulling me into a state of peace. I feel a sense of relief wash over me, and I know that I can trust Mira to help me overcome my fear.

That I can trust her in general.

"Now, I want you to repeat after me," Mira says. "I am calm and relaxed. I am safe and secure. I trust Mira to help me overcome my fear of flying."

I repeat the words back to her, feeling a sense of conviction in my voice. I do trust Mira. She's the expert, and I know she can help me.

"Repeat after me,” Mira says, with a new edge to her voice. "You will come here next week. And the week after. And the week after…”

I feel like I should frown. I’ve already acknowledged that this will be a long process, haven’t I? Of course consistency is important, but… but…

There is no frowning, not in this third state, which is neither slumber nor waking. Only nodding, agreeing, absorbing.

"You're doing great, Zara," Mira says, her voice soothing again. “Keep visualising the plane. The engines hum you to sleep, it’s blissful, so quiet… you fall asleep shortly after takeoff, and wake up when you land. The entire flight, gone in an instant, with a snap of fingers. No thoughts. No fears.”

“No thoughts…” I whisper, seeing the scene so clearly in my mind’s eye that for a moment I wonder if my eyes really are close. “No fears…”

“Perhaps we can all fly,” Mira whispers. “How will we find out, if we don’t climb up, and up, and up… and then take a leap of faith?”

“Uhh,” I say, and I’m not really sure what word I was really looking for. It doesn’t really matter, does it? This isn’t a conversation, I’m not exactly expected to contribute… all I have to do is listen. Let Mira do the talking, the guiding, the thinking, yes… gone in the blink of an eye…

“Perhaps we can all dare,” Mira continues. “That’s what I always tell my clients. You never know what you’re capable of, until you push yourself to your limits. There is bravery in all of us, Zara. Bravery to try. Bravery to challenge. Bravery to dare.”

Her words wash over me, their connectivity no longer clear to me. I stop trying to follow them… too much mental strain. It’s soooo much easier to just let them in, let them bypass all my unhealthy coping mechanisms, all my defenses, until they get to… to… to…

“And three,” Mira says, and just like that, my eyes dart open, as I sit straight up. I look around, confused, blinking, as the fog lifts from my mind, receding.

At last, my unsettled gaze stops on Mira.

She’s looking at me with a curious expression, lips slightly curled, the merest hint of an arched eyebrow. Studying my reaction, perhaps? A part of me realises she’s patiently waiting on me to catch up, and that almost makes me blush… but I’m sure she gets that a lot. All new patients are like this the first time they’re hypnotised, right? It isn’t just me?

God, I need to stop obsessing about not measuring up, at least once.

“Woah,” I say at last. “That was… not what I expected.”

“I get that a lot,” Mira says with a smile.

“It was… vivid,” I continue, trying to find the right words, but it’s like trying to capture smoke with my fingers. It eludes me, evading all classification. “Vivid, yes, feverish, but also… not quite. Like I wasn’t really there.”

“That’s because, in a way, you weren’t,” Mira says plaintively. “Or rather, the more self aware parts of your brain were not. This is the whole point of hypnotherapy, dear. We peel away layer after layer, so that we can communicate with a deeper part of you, huddling somewhere deep. A part that’s scared and buried away, relying on all sorts of messed up things to shield itself from the world…”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, gulping, looking away, suddenly unable to meet Mira’s gaze. God, how does she know me so well already? Have I… said anything, while I was under? Or is it that obvious that I feel like such a failure?

“Don’t fret,” Mira says, gently, her voice pulling me back to the present moment with a gentle, but firm tug. “We’ll make sure you internalise things in no time. Your fear of flying will soon be a thing of the past.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing up. “Same time next week? Oh! Here, let me just…”

“Same time next week, yes,” Mira replies, while I fumble with my wallet. I’m a pretty clumsy girl, and it takes me a moment to pull all the right notes out of the wallet. I carefully store it away, and approach Mira’s desk with the money in hand.

As I approach, Mira seems to relax even further in her chair. I blink in confusion as I see her lift and extend one leg, and then another. She plants her legs firmly on the desk, crossed at the ankles, her heeled feet slowly bobbing and rotating this way and that.

That’s… not really in line with the professional imagery she projected at the beginning, is she? What kind of therapist puts her feet on the desk in a context like this?

Mira seems to notice my discomfort. She giggles mischievously. “Oh, Zara, I’m just relaxing. You saw how important and therapeutic relaxation can be.”

“I guess…” I say in a whisper, not really sure what to say.

“Besides,” Mira continues, “I did tell you we like to keep things informal here. I don’t want any barriers of formality between us.”

I… I guess it makes sense? Or it’s internally consistent, at least. I don’t know, maybe it’s part of her method, how she helps patients. I guess I’ll just have to go along with it for the time being, even if it can be challenging or confusing at times.

I need to trust Mira. I need to come back next week.

Mira snaps her fingers, and I realise I’ve spaced out again.

“Sorry, sorry,” I hasten to say, clutching the notes in my hand. “Here…”

“Leave them there,” Mira says. Her index finger is pointing to a specific point on the desk, right next to… her shoes.

“Right there,” Mira repeats, and I have an odd feeling. I can sense it ripple across my expression, like a cloud, passing before the sun. Something about this is… weird. I have no experience with therapists, but something tells me this isn’t really how therapists normally behave.

Even so, what else can I do but comply and bring this social interaction to an end? I carefully, methodically place the money right next to Mira’s heels. She’s relaxing, comfortable in her chair, legs propped up on the desk, feet crossed in their heels, as I place hard-earned cash right by them.

Somehow, this feels almost… symbolic? I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, it’s silly to think otherwise, of course it isn’t a power move, but I still don’t feel particularly comfortable…

I step back, having left the money where they belong. I push my doubts down. There’s no room for them, if I want to be a better girlfriend. I need to come back next week. I need to trust Mira.

I feel like I’ve stared at the bottom of her shoes for some time, before Mira at last clears her throat, snapping me from my reverie.

“I should go,” I say, my cheeks reddening. I gather my things and head for the door, before Mira stops me in my tracks with one last comment.

“See? Informal works,” she says. “We can be friendly, and still get the job done.”

I turn to contemplate her, this woman barely older than I am. Beautiful, intelligent, confident, supremely in her element. A picture of laid back, princely eminence, money pooled at her feet after a job well done.

She pointedly looks to me, then to the money. Then back to me.

“It’s just like I told you, dear Zara,” she says, cocking her head, flashing me a knowing smirk… even though I don’t really know what she means by it, exactly.

“Perhaps,” Mira says, slowly, as if savouring every word… “we can all dare.”