Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

The therapist tells me her name, which is a complicated assemblage of letters, perhaps foreign, though she does not have foreign features or an accent that I can detect, so maybe she married into the name. In any case, the name does not stick and is quickly forgotten, but I am not worried because I am pretty sure she will hand me her business card at some point during our session, making it one less piece of information I need to store in my brain.

She attempts small talk, asking about my job, family, and hobbies—and in any other situation, this conversational choreography would usually be meant to put me at ease, but I know she is searching for a backdoor into my psyche. Instead of focusing on her trained, soothing voice, I concentrate on how the afternoon sun cuts through the blinds, casting stripes across her face. And that is when I first noticed it.

The skin around the therapist’s left eye seems to droop slightly. At first, I thought it was just the shadows playing tricks, but no, her eyelid definitely sags. She does not seem to realize anything is amiss, continuing to ask about my goals for therapy. I wonder if I should mention it, but the sagging stops. I must be seeing things.

As the session progressed, I guardedly opened up about the stresses in my life—my high-pressure job, distant marriage, and feelings of loneliness. The therapist listens intently, head cocked in concentration. That is when her nose begins to flatten and melt towards the left.

I recoil involuntarily. This time, there is no doubt. Her nose continues to ooze down her face, taking on a hooked, crooked appearance. My mouth goes dry, palms prickling with sweat. I want to scream, to push away from this thing that pretends to be human. But I just sit there, frozen.

The therapist noticed my expression. “Is everything alright?” she asks in that same gentle tone, adjusting her nose back into place when she thinks I am not looking.

I try to form a response but can only stammer incoherently. She smiles kindly. “Don’t worry, this is normal. Just take a deep breath.”

I blink hard, willing my vision to stabilize. When I open my eyes, the therapist looks normal again. The moment stretches on in excruciating silence. I feel my sanity withering in this tiny room where nothing makes sense.

I rise abruptly. “You know what, maybe therapy isn’t for me,” I stammer, feeling the room close in on me. I flee her office without another word, and her too-gentle voice calls out, offering to reschedule.

As I drive home, I feel an itch on the back of my neck, like I’m being watched. Glancing at the rearview mirror, I see her face superimposed over mine, whispering, “Our session isn’t over yet.”