Therapy Bits

My thanks to Missy for challenging me! To join in with Missy’s challenge click the below link.

Missy’s MAD Challenge # 044 – M.A.D. Works

This week our challenge phrase is “I know how it feels to be in his shoes”.

Here is my effort.

The library was quiet, save for the steady hum of the old radiator and the occasional rustle of pages turning. Clara sat at her usual spot by the tall window, where the golden afternoon light spilled onto the table, warming the oak surface. Across from her, a boy she had never seen before was bent over his notebook, scribbling furiously. His shoulders were hunched, and his brow furrowed with the kind of intensity that only came from chasing answers that refused to be found.

She had been watching him for a while now, not out of curiosity but out of a strange familiarity that tugged at her chest. He reminded her of herself a year ago—before life had nudged her onto a different path. Unable to resist, she pulled out her sketchbook and began sketching his profile: the way his hand clenched his pen, the slight tilt of his head, and the shadow of determination in his eyes.

Minutes passed, and soon her drawing was complete. She hesitated, then tore the page out carefully, folding it neatly. Rising, she crossed the room and placed the paper on the edge of his table. He looked up at her, surprised, his dark eyes searching hers for an explanation.

“I know how it feels to be in his shoes,” Clara said softly, gesturing to the sketch. “I’ve been there—where you are now. It gets better.”

The boy’s mouth opened slightly as if to respond, but he said nothing. Instead, he unfolded the paper and stared at the drawing. The lines captured more than his likeness; somehow, they had captured his struggle, his hope, and the heaviness that he carried so quietly.

He blinked rapidly, composing himself. “Thanks,” he finally murmured, his voice barely audible over the radiator’s hum.

Clara smiled. “Keep going. You’ll find what you’re looking for.” She turned and walked back to her table, leaving him to sit with the paper and the words that lingered in the air.

In the months that followed, they crossed paths often. Sometimes it was in the library, sometimes at the corner café where the barista knew both their names. They never talked much—just exchanged nods or small smiles—but each time, Clara noticed the weight in his eyes lift a little more.

And then, one day, he approached her in the library. He held out a folded piece of paper, his hands trembling slightly. When she unfolded it, she found a sketch of herself, sitting by the tall window, her face bathed in light. Beneath it, he had written: “Because you showed me how to keep walking.”

Clara looked up at him, her chest swelling with an emotion she couldn’t name. They didn’t need to say much; some stories are written in silence, in shared looks, in gestures that say more than words ever could. Together, they had found a way to keep walking—one step, one page, one sketch at a time.