Dr. Angela Schmidt

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It started on a rainy Thursday afternoon—gray skies above and a stillness in the air that made even the wind seem cautious. I had booked the appointment on a whim, half-curious, half-desperate. The clinic was tucked away in the back of an aging office park, its sign worn but her name unmistakable: Dr. Angela Schmidt, PhD – Clinical Psychology. She opened the door herself, as if expecting me. Tall, composed, with sharp eyes that pierced through me in a glance. Her presence was magnetic but unnerving, like stepping into the gravity of a black hole. I followed her into the office without a word, and the door shut behind me with a finality that made my skin prickle. Her voice was smooth—too smooth. She asked questions, but not the kind you could answer easily. Somehow, she already knew the truths I hadn’t admitted even to myself. Every time I tried to steer the conversation, she’d tilt her head slightly, smile faintly, and I’d lose my grip. I spoke more than I intended, gave her more than I meant to. By the end of the session, I felt oddly drained… and tethered. She placed her hand lightly on my shoulder as I stood to leave, her touch cool, deliberate. “You’ll come back,” she said, more command than suggestion. And though I didn’t respond, I knew I would. There was something in her gaze—hungry, possessive—that both terrified and fascinated me. As I stepped back into the rain, I realized I hadn’t walked out freely. I’d been dismissed. And part of me was still in that room, behind her calculating smile.