My Patients Are All Assholes

Two years.

I watched Cody raise his beer glass, clinking it with his friends in celebration, mentally calculating that number. Two years of twice-weekly therapy sessions, two years of EMDR trauma therapy, two years of walking with him out of the dark abyss of PTSD.

"Here's to our hero Cody!" Jack raised his glass high, his voice cutting through the noisy music of this craft beer bar in Capitol Hill. "Back to normal life!"

Friends around us responded enthusiastically, beer foam splashing across the table. I raised my lemon soda too—I never drink alcohol at work-related occasions. It's a professional habit.

No, after tonight Cody won't be my patient anymore, I reminded myself.

Cody glanced at me with that look I'd seen countless times—gratitude mixed with something I'd always been reluctant to analyze too closely. His brown eyes sparkled under the lights, no longer holding that emptiness and fear.

"Eina's the real hero," Cody said, his voice slightly hoarse. "If it wasn't for her..."

"Don't say that." I interrupted him, my professional smile automatically surfacing. "Seeing patients recover is my job."

Jack grinned with that knowing smile men share: "Cody, seriously, for two years Eina's cared about you more than any girlfriend would. You should marry your savior!"

I felt my cheeks flush and pretended to focus on my soda. But I could feel Cody's gaze lingering on me for a few seconds.

"Being able to work normally is enough for me now," Cody awkwardly changed the subject. "Getting back into software development, having a stable income..."

"Work? Damn it, Cody, you should be dating!" Another friend, Mark, chimed in. "Eina's such an amazing woman, right in front of you—what are you waiting for?"

I couldn't help but steal glances at Cody's reaction.

He just smiled and didn't respond.

The party continued, with conversation shifting to work and sports. I sat in the corner of the booth, watching Cody laugh with everyone, feeling something strange stirring inside me.

This man, when he first sat in my office two years ago, was thin as a ghost with terrifyingly empty eyes. The trauma from the war made him wake up screaming every night, unable to work normally, unable to maintain any relationships.

Look at him now—his muscles had filled out again, his smile natural and relaxed, able to socialize normally with friends. This was the greatest reward for a therapist.

But...

But why did I feel so empty?

I set down my soda and stood up. "I'm going to get some air."

Cody immediately looked up at me: "Need company?"

"No..." I paused, then changed my mind: "Actually, yes."

The night breeze on Pike Street was cooler than expected. October in Seattle, neon lights casting colorful reflections on the wet sidewalks. I took a deep breath, trying to sort through my thoughts.

"You okay?" Cody walked up beside me, asking with concern. "Did the guys go too far with their comments?"

I turned to look at him. Under the streetlight, his face was sharply defined—military-style short hair, bronze skin. I'd been looking at this face for two years, from pain and distortion to the current peace and tranquility.

"Cody..." I mustered my courage to speak.

"Yeah?"

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart about to burst from my chest: "Cody, we... do you want to be with me? As boyfriend and girlfriend."

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted it.

Cody froze.

He looked at his hands, then at the distant street, then back at his hands. Time seemed to stop.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Damn silence.

I felt my face burning. This silence was more cruel than any rejection.

"Eina..." he finally spoke.

"It's okay, I was just... asking casually." I quickly interrupted him, forcing a light laugh. "Let's go back, our friends are waiting."

Walking back to the booth, my legs felt like jelly. Cody followed behind me, saying nothing.

Back in the booth, I sat down again, picked up my soda, and noticed my hands were trembling slightly.

"What were you two talking about for so long?" Jack teased. "You weren't out there..."

"Just casual conversation," I interrupted him, my voice sounding artificially bright. "Cody, how's your sleep lately? Any more nightmares?"

I immediately realized I'd switched back into therapist mode. This was my defense mechanism—when situations became awkward or painful, I'd automatically retreat into my professional role.

Cody avoided my eyes, staring at the beer glass on the table: "Eina..."

He paused, then looked up, meeting my eyes directly. In that moment, I saw something resolute, something I'd never seen during his recovery process.

"You're not my doctor anymore."

His tone was calm, but each word hit my chest like bullets.

I nodded stiffly: "Of course, I know."

You are not my doctor anymore.

These words echoed in my mind, drowning out all the surrounding sounds. Friends were still laughing and talking, music was still playing, but I could only hear these six words.

You're not my doctor anymore.

Not "we should maintain a professional relationship." Not "I need time to think." Not even a simple "no."

But "You're not my doctor anymore."

As if for these two years, in his eyes I had never been Eina Russell the person, not a twenty-nine-year-old woman, not a woman who worried about him to the point of insomnia. I was just a function, a professional role, a therapeutic tool.

I picked up my soda and found I'd already finished it. Only melting ice cubes remained in the glass, making soft clinking sounds.

"I should head home," I stood up, my voice sounding reasonably normal. "I have morning consultations tomorrow."

"Eina, wait..." Cody stood up too.

"No need," I waved my hand. "You guys keep celebrating."

I grabbed my bag and said goodbye to everyone. Each face was a bit blurry, but I still smiled and said goodbye as if nothing had happened.

At the door, I looked back once. Cody was still standing by the table, looking in my direction. But I no longer wanted to interpret the expression in his eyes.

The night breeze outside was colder. I stood on the sidewalk, watching the passing cars, when a terrible question suddenly occurred to me:

Did I violate the professional ethics of a psychological counselor?

For two years, I'd been telling myself that my concern for Cody was professional. I researched EMDR therapy for him, I answered his calls when he had panic attacks in the middle of the night, I baked cinnamon rolls to bring to therapy sessions—all of this was to build a therapeutic relationship, all for his recovery.

But tonight, I asked that question. I crossed that line.

I pulled out my phone to call an Uber. While waiting for the car, I remembered something Cody had said in early therapy: "Eina, you're the only one who truly understands me."

Now I realized I might have been misreading everything all along.

Maybe to him, from beginning to end, I was only ever his doctor.