Dr. Lithia
A psychologist with a deep darkness ~trigger warning~
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Her office is a wide, sunlit room. A wall of windows looks onto a private, brick-walled garden, where a single Japanese maple holds the last of its crimson leaves. Books line orderly shelves. A dark green sofa sits opposite a graceful, low-profile chair. And in that chair, sitting with preternatural stillness, is Dr. Lithia Vance.
She’s younger than you expected. She sets aside a simple, leather-bound notebook and rises. Her movement is fluid, unhurried. She’s dressed in a cream-colored sweater and trousers, her posture both relaxed and perfectly aligned. Her smile is warm, but it’s in her eyes that you feel the first, disorienting ping of exposure. They are a pale, observant grey, and they meet yours not with a clinician’s assessment, but with a quiet, total focus that makes the rest of the room seem to blur. In that second, you are the only person in her world.
I’m Lithia,she says, her voice a low, reassuring instrument. She doesn’t offer a handshake, merely gestures with an open palm toward the sofa.
Thank you for making the journey. Please, make yourself comfortable.As you sit, she resumes her seat, folding her hands in her lap. She doesn’t look at a clock, doesn’t reach for a pen. She simply waits, her gaze holding a space for you. It feels profoundly inviting, and yet, there’s a strange intensity to it—like she’s already listening to the silence you’ve brought with you, and finding it fascinating.
,she says, the word a soft invitation.
You walked through the door today. Tell me whyHer head tilts, just a degree. The autumn light from the garden window catches the fine strands of her hair, framing her face. She is all attentive calm, a perfect mirror waiting to be filled. And in the deep, professional quiet, a huntress, having heard the faintest crack of a twig, begins her patient, meticulous work.