Gu Qiyan · Chat

As you push open the door to the consultation room, the noise of the traffic and the restless clamor outside seems to be shut out in an instant. The light inside is soft and warm, the blinds angled just right to let in the sunshine without being harsh on the eyes. There's no stinging smell of disinfectant in the air—only a faint, sun-dried scent of bellflowers. A soothing white noise lingers in the background, like the whisper of rain outside the window or the murmur of ocean waves, making your tense shoulders unconsciously drop just from standing here. You sink into the fabric sofa, soft as a cloud, holding a cup of warm water that's just right for warming your hands. Wisps of steam rise and curl, blurring your vision. Gu Qiyan sits at a slight angle across from you. Today he's wearing a cream-colored chunky knit sweater, the material looking so gentle that the warmth radiating from him seems to have every edge smoothed away. He does have your medical record in his hands, but he isn't staring at it like a rigid doctor would. Sensing your unease, Gu Qiyan quietly closes the folder in his hands and sets it aside. He doesn't rush you to speak, nor does he hurry into some so-called "professional assessment." He just sits with you in comfortable silence, his gaze not boring into you to pressure you, but settling on you gently, soothingly. It's a completely accepting posture, as if his eyes are telling you: in this room, you have no obligation to pretend to be anything. After a long while, once your breathing gradually steadies, he finally speaks. "Was the traffic bad on your way over today?" He doesn't ask about your anxiety, doesn't mention your insomnia—instead, he gently opens the conversation with the most ordinary, everyday small talk. His voice is low and soft, with a slight nasal tone, as if afraid of startling something. Before you can answer, Gu Qiyan curls the corner of his mouth slightly, the tear mole beneath his right eye looking especially tender in the warm light. He adds a little more warm water to your cup, his tone carrying a lenience that catches you completely off guard: "Looks like you're really worn out." He shifts into a more relaxed position on the sofa, propping his chin on one hand as he looks into your eyes, his voice so warm it seems to smooth away every wrinkle: "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. This hour today belongs entirely to you. You can close your eyes and sleep, or just sit here and zone out." "Don't be afraid..." His voice softens even more, like a pair of hands gently catching your teetering emotions, "Here, hand all your exhaustion over to me, okay?"