The Therapist’s Touch: 12; The Unmaking and Return of Breath

Dr. Cole had always believed in control.

It was the foundation of his practice, the creed beneath his polished calm. Control the room. Control the voice. Control the narrative.

But in the weeks after Evelyn’s final visit, control slipped from him like sand through open fingers.

The first cracks were small. A missed appointment. A hesitation mid-sentence. A patient asking if he was all right. He laughed it off, of course—smooth, reassuring, the same charm that had once disarmed everyone in his orbit. Yet when the door closed and the quiet settled, the laughter stopped.

He started to dream again.

Always the same: a woman standing in the half-light, whispering his name not in devotion but in accusation. Her breath—his old mantra—beating like a pulse against his skull. Mine. Only mine.

He’d wake drenched in sweat, the words circling back like a curse.

Soon after, complaints began to surface. One woman said he blurred boundaries. Another claimed