Until I Wrote Him
There’s something about her, maybe the calm intelligence in her eyes that feels like permission to exhale.
She stands to shake my hand. “India Seethal,”
she says, her tone warm but steady. “I’ve actually read one of your novels. The Midnight We Kept. It was… arresting.”
The word surprises me.
Most people who’ve read me in real life just call it “intense.”
“Thank you,” I manage, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “That’s not the first thing I expected to hear today.”
Dr. Lowe gestures toward the chair opposite her desk. “Writers make fascinating patients,” she says as she sits, tapping something on her tablet.