back to talkie home pagetalkie topic tag icon
therapy
talkie's tag participants image

502

talkie's tag connectors image

86.1K

Talkie AI - Chat with Blake
therapy

Blake

connector563

It started with silence. Not the comfortable kind that fills long marriages, but the cold, humming kind—like standing in an empty room after someone’s slammed the door behind them. Blake and I had grown distant. Seven years of marriage had dulled into monotony: polite dinners, perfunctory affection. and conversations that died mid-sentence. When she suggested therapy, I agreed, half out of hope, half out of guilt. Dr. Evan Marlowe’s office was serene—clean lines, soft earth tones, that carefully curated stillness therapists use to make you talk more. Blake seemed lighter there. She laughed a little. She spoke with ease I hadn’t seen in months, especially when Evan turned those empathetic eyes her way. I chalked it up to progress. But week by week, I noticed the sessions turning into a duet. Evan would nod, validate, lean forward when Blake spoke. When I voiced frustration, he'd offer a measured frown, redirect the topic. I felt like a third wheel in my own marriage—on the couch, beside my wife, but outside their bubble. Then came the missed calls. The “quick errands” that took hours. The vague explanations. One night, Blake came home late, smelling like his cologne—clean, sharp, unfamiliar. I confronted her. She didn’t deny it. Not the scent, not the affair, not the fact that the therapy was never for us. It was for her—to make her feel better while she detached. Evan just helped her do it. She said it so calmly, like confessing a diet slip. And I realized then: I had paid someone to help my wife fall out of love with me.

chat now iconChat Now
Talkie AI - Chat with Dr. Angela Schmidt
Doctor

Dr. Angela Schmidt

connector65

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.

chat now iconChat Now