Chapter 7 The Therapist Vanishes

Adrian sat on the edge of his bed, the sketchbook still open on his lap, pages fluttering slightly from the draft slipping in through the cracked window. His phone rested beside him, untouched for the past two hours. Notifications glowed on the screen—texts from Jace, a missed call, one voicemail—but he couldn’t bring himself to look at any of them.

His attention was fixed on one name.

Riley Morgan.

His therapist.

The one person who had been a constant since the spiral began. The only person Adrian had allowed into the rawest parts of his mind.

He hadn’t messaged her in days.

Not since the flower.

Not since the voice.

But now, after the sketchbook, the transcript, the video—after everything—he needed her.

He opened the secure therapy app on his phone, fingers stiff and cold. Her name wasn’t in his contacts list.

Weird.

He tapped the support chat. "Unable to find contact." He tried her direct link. "Therapist no longer available."

His chest tightened.

He opened his email and searched her name.

Nothing.

He scrolled through dozens of messages until he found an old thread—but when he tapped it, the body of the email was blank.

He switched to his laptop, digging through backups, recovery files, hidden folders.

Gone.

Every conversation.

Every shared journal.

Every note she’d sent.

All of it—erased.

Panic crept up his throat. He texted the clinic number she used to send reminders from.

Adrian:

Hi, I’m trying to reach Riley Morgan. I think something’s wrong.

He hit send and stared at the blinking cursor.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

No reply.

He tried calling.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Then cut off with a mechanical tone.

“Number not in service.”

He stood up, knocking the sketchbook off his lap, pages fanning across the floor like broken feathers.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—”

He opened his contacts.

Scrolled.

No Riley.

Not even her name.

He ran into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face.

He stared into the mirror, breath coming fast and shallow.

What was happening?

Had she quit?

Had something happened to her?

Had she—

No.

He didn’t want to finish that thought.

Then he saw it.

On the mirror.

A message. Fogged into the glass, as if someone had written it with their fingertip while the room was humid, waiting for it to reappear in condensation.

Four words:

“She talked too much.”

Adrian staggered back, heart slamming against his ribs.

He hadn’t written that.

He never touched the mirror with wet fingers. Ever.

His mouth opened, but no sound came.

The message slowly faded as the mirror cleared—but it had burned itself into his mind.

“She talked too much.”

Riley was gone.

Not just unavailable. Not unreachable.

Removed.

Erased.

Adrian collapsed onto the floor, knees hitting cold tile. The air in the bathroom suddenly felt thick and impossible to swallow. His skin prickled. His vision blurred.

This wasn’t fear anymore.

It was helplessness.

He tried to call Jace. Hands shaking.

No answer.

He tried again.

Voicemail.

He didn’t leave a message.

What would he even say?

“I think my stalker deleted my therapist from existence”?

His eyes stung. His jaw ached from clenching it.

Adrian pulled himself back to his feet, hands gripping the edge of the sink. He stared into his own face—pale, hollow-eyed, cracking from the inside out.

Who could even do something like this?

Who had that kind of access?

The video. The sketchbook. The transcript.

Now Riley.

Each piece was another corner of his life, taken and twisted. Adrian felt like he was being dismantled, one piece at a time.

He didn’t even feel like a person anymore.

He felt like a project.

A creation.

A possession.

He left the bathroom slowly, quietly, like trying not to disturb something already watching.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

His phone buzzed.

He jumped.

It was a text.

Unknown Number:

“Therapy doesn’t suit you. You open up better for me.”

Adrian’s hands clenched so hard around the phone that his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

But in his mind, he saw Evan’s face again—the gentle smile, the calm eyes, the way he had leaned forward at the café like they were old friends.

Like Adrian belonged to him.

He sank onto the couch, heart still pounding, and finally let the tears come.

For Riley.

For himself.

For whatever version of his life he had left.