The notebook wasn’t supposed to be there.
Lena noticed it the moment she sat down on the couch—the familiar leather-bound book resting on the small table between the two armchairs, its spine angled toward her like it was watching. Dr. Halvorsen never left it out. She always tucked it away after sessions, as if its contents were too delicate to exist without supervision.
Yet there it was.
Closed. Quiet. Waiting.
Ethan hadn’t noticed. He was staring at the window instead, jaw tight, leg bouncing slightly—his tell when he was preparing not to speak.
Lena folded her hands in her lap. “Is that … new?”
Dr. Halvorsen paused mid-step. Just for a fraction of a second. Too brief to be accidental.
“No,” she said. “But let’s not worry about that.”
That was when the pen moved.
A soft scratching sound cut through the room.
Lena’s eyes dropped to the notebook as the cover lifted on its own, pages flipping slowly until they stopped near the middle. The pen, resting neatly along the binding, rose—hovered—and began to write.
Ethan turned sharply. “What the hell is that?”
Dr. Halvorsen didn’t look surprised. Tired, maybe. Resigned.
“I was wondering when it would start with you two,” she said quietly.
The pen continued.
They are both afraid to be the first one to say it.
Lena’s breath hitched.
“That’s not funny,” Ethan said. “Is this some kind of exercise?”
The pen scratched harder.
He thinks saying it will make it real.
She thinks silence already has.
Lena stood abruptly. “Stop it.”
The notebook ignored her.
Dr. Halvorsen finally met their eyes. “I need you to understand something,” she said carefully. “This doesn’t happen often. And it never happens without permission.”
“Permission?” Ethan snapped. “We didn’t agree to this.”
The pen paused.
Then wrote:
You agreed when you came back after the third cancellation.
You agreed when you asked for help but kept your mouths closed.
The room felt smaller now. The air heavier.
Lena hugged herself. “So what—this thing just… exposes us?”
“It doesn’t expose,” Dr. Halvorsen said softly. “It translates.”
The pen turned the page.
He practices conversations in the car that never reach his mouth.
She mourns the version of him who used to ask questions.
Ethan’s face flushed. “That’s not—”
The pen underlined the sentence.
Hard.
Lena laughed once, sharp and brittle. “Wow. It writes faster than you ever speak.”
Ethan shot to his feet. “You think this is helpful?”
The pen wrote again, quicker now, ink darker.
He is angry because it’s accurate.
She is angry because it’s late.
Silence fell like a dropped plate.
Dr. Halvorsen leaned back. “You can stop it,” she said.
“How?” Lena whispered.
“By saying what it’s saying. Out loud. Before it has to.”
Ethan looked at Lena—really looked, like he was searching for the safest exit.
The notebook waited.
“I feel like I lost you,” Lena said suddenly. The words tumbled out, unpolished. “Not all at once. Just… gradually. Like you kept choosing quiet over me.”
The pen slowed.
Ethan swallowed. “I didn’t know how to talk without disappointing you.”
The notebook hesitated.
Then wrote smaller, neater letters.
This is the first time today the room can breathe.
Lena’s eyes burned. “I didn’t need perfect. I needed present.”
Ethan nodded, voice rough. “I didn’t know how to be that anymore.”
The pen stopped.
The notebook closed itself gently, like a book put to rest.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Dr. Halvorsen finally stood and slid the notebook back into her drawer. “It won’t open again today.”
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. “That thing is terrifying.”
Lena wiped her eyes. “It’s honest.”
They sat back down, closer this time—not touching, but aligned.
“So,” Ethan said quietly, “what else was it going to write?”
Dr. Halvorsen smiled faintly. “It only writes what it doesn’t need to repeat.”
Outside, the city moved on—unaware that in one small room, a marriage had finally stopped whispering and started speaking.