I sat in the therapist's office, staring at the floor, my shoulders slumped under the weight of another failed attempt at intimacy. Dr. Meera Verma was her name, a sharp-featured woman in her late thirties with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and glasses that framed her intense brown eyes.
She'd been seeing me for weeks, listening to my endless rants about depression and erectile dysfunction that left me feeling like a worthless shell. Today, though, she leaned forward in her chair, her blouse straining slightly against her chest as she fixed me with a determined gaze.
I have started something I am not even sure anyone would read. Now here we are. Me—still writing. You—still here. I’m not backed by fame or algorithms, just pure passion… and you. So if you’re reading this, thank you. Your support doesn’t just help—it builds this journey. And every share, every comment, every cheer? It’s another “Keep going.” And I will. For you to read. Comment your darkest desires to read in the story.
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