"Reverie: a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream; an instrumental piece suggesting a dreamy or musing state; a fanciful or impractical idea or theory."

Chapter 1

As an artist, I could tell that this was a psychiatrist's office. All of the abstract hotel room art of bamboo stalks on white canvas displayed on the wall was as calm and stock image-y as you could get. It was like you knew that the designer went out and bought the first thing that matched with their plain, non-threatening furniture. It went with the mood of being a psychiatrist, trying to avoid any potential triggers, which wasn't bad per say, but the art was almost trying too hard to be impersonal that it was no longer visually interesting. You just ignored it like the art used to fill the walls of a hotel. The only reason that I even paid attention to it was because I was too wired to be staring at my phone, and it was the only pop of color to lock onto. Everything was varying shades of beige, even the desk. The office space lacked so much personality, you could have told me this was a studio for tax auditing, and I would have believed you. Truly, this was a place where time came to die, the seconds crawling by so slowly I wondered if the satellite on my phone lost service. The secondhand on clock on the wall seemed to hesitate back a step with every tick forward.

Eventually, the door opened, and I turned my head to see a petite young Japanese woman with pink hair. Hours later, I couldn't tell you what her face looked like. Like, if beige was a person, it would be her. The pink hair though... that had been distinct.

"Alyssa Blake?"

"Yes?"

"Hello, I'm Dr. Yorokobi," said the psychiatrist as I went shake her hand and then quickly retracted it as she bowed and went to take a seat at her desk. I still couldn't get over the difference in cultural greetings. "Have a seat." She gestured to the loveseat behind me (also beige) as I swept up the edge of my paisley shirt dress and felt my 24-wide butt sink into the sterile couch cushions, depriving me of the view of the single piece of color in the room as I faced towards the psychiatrist with a close-lipped smile. I was currently in the middle of shark week and the last thing I wanted to do was accidentally ruin her couch because my uterus decided to rebel with a heavy flow week and overload my poor tampon. I squeezed my thighs together as I locked my ankles together, like it would somehow help prevent any seepage.

"And why is it that you have come here today?"

"Well, I figured it was finally time. I promised my sister that I was going to look into getting a therapist, but I need to be tested again so I get coverage from vocational rehab."

"So you decided to look into therapy because your sister wanted you to, not because you want to?"

"No, I wanted to."

"Do you think you need therapy?"

"Yes, but it's not just because someone told me to go. Recently, I had an incident where I lashed out at someone close to me because I was feeling overwhelmed, and I didn't like how I handled the situation, and I'd like a better grasp on handling my emotions in a healthy way. Plus, everyone's harping on me to talk to someone about the thing that happened at the beginning of May, so I'd like to prove I don't have something like PTSD or depression or whatever." I then gave her a quick rundown of what happened. How I had gone to meet up with an online friend and had been caught up in a kid's failed abduction attempt that resulted in me being sent to the hospital. After I had finished, she gave a thoughtful nod and scratched something onto her notepad.

"Do you feel like you need to talk about it?" I pushed up the pair of rectangle, cat-eye glasses up on the bridge of my nose, a replacement for the horn-rimmed glasses that had been broken in the alleyway during the skirmish. They had been the glasses I had before Mom decided I needed a new pair for college, back when things were simpler and we still lived in the US. It had the same prescription as the broken ones, so it was easy to forget the pair of glasses I wore were different- that I was different. Outside of the rare moment I glanced in a mirror, the only time I realized they weren't my old pair was by seeing the flash of pink, Vera Bradley paisley pattern on the underside of the earpieces when I glanced in my peripheral vision. Then I would remember all over again.

"I don't know. I can if I have to, like it doesn't hurt to talk about it, but after telling the same story over and over again to people like my boss and the police, I feel like I've already talked about it enough. It's not like I'm traumatized by it or anything. It's not like I have nightmares or get PTSD flashbacks from it," I said, deciding not to add the part of how I checked the corners of stairwells when I walked long flights of stairs and always listened for strange noises when inside an elevator. The intense fear had only lasted less than a day or so, which seemed natural since I hadn't been the target- just the accomplice. Now, it had just become part of some of my other mundane habit, like checking to make sure someone wasn't following you at night. Japan didn't have the greatest laws when it came to protecting people against stalkers, and I was a woman after all. It was just common sense.

"Trauma doesn't always manifest itself in the same ways for everyone. Some might pick up a bad habit from the incident while others might find their romantic partners or decisions impacted by the behavior."

"Well, I'm fine. I haven't done anything out of the ordinary lately."

"Really? No triggering behaviors like checking the door is locked ten times?" I couldn't help but eye Yorokobi like she was crazy. Did she think I had OCD or something?

"No... Just the normal amount."

"What do you think is a normal amount?"

"Locking the door behind you when you come home, making sure the doors locked before you go to bed, and maybe double checking if you can't remember if you checked the locks already? Does that make me certifiable?"

Rather than give me a reassuring 'no, of course not,' Yorokobi just smiled and said, "We'll just have to see what the results of the psych evaluation pull up. Right now, I'm just wanting to confirm that you actually have autism and anything else before we apply your financial aid from vocational rehab."

I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. As a consequence of being so high functioning, I had to periodically prove to people that I was, in fact, on the autism spectrum. 'Yes, I'm high functioning.' 'No, I don't look like someone who would have autism (whatever the fuck that means).' 'Yes, I am very well adjusted.' 'No, I'm not like Rain Man.' Almost everyone reacted with surprise at the reveal of my diagnosis, like I had to be some sort of woman-child to have autism or had to be lying about it to get sympathy or perks at work. It's not like I exactly got a handicap parking space, but there had been a few kids that had glared daggers at me for getting extra test time in school.

"So, after addressing all of this, what would you like to get out of therapy then?"

"I'd like to help solve some of my deep-rooted issues and learn new strategies on how to cope with stress and my anxiety."

"I see… Have you ever had a therapist before?"

"I had some behavioral therapists in my special ed classes growing up, and there was a divorce counselor we had for a brief window of time when I was around nine or ten, but other than that, no. This would be the first time."

"I see… Well, let's get started. Why don't you tell me about yourself so we can get to know each other a little bit. It says here you're American?"

"Yes. I'm from the Midwest, specifically Mooresville, Indiana."

"Your Japanese is very good."

"Thanks. I've been studying Japanese as a hobby since I was in middle school, though some of the kanji still throws me off."

"Do you have any other hobbies?"

"Well, I like to read, watch anime, sing, listening to music, write stories, draw… I'm currently in the middle of trying to publish my webcomic in print, though the convention I want to sell it at is not for a couple of months… oh! I also play the violin. I always forget that one... I've played it since I was about five or six years old, but I haven't played professionally since college."

"Sounds like you're very creative."

"So I'm told."

"Why haven't you played music since college?"

"I haven't really needed to. There was always a reason to play music because of the school orchestra or college credit, and now there's not."

"So you didn't go to college to study music?"

"Oh no. Absolutely not. I would die if I had to play music in public again. Much too stressful to have as a career."

"Why not?"

"Because of the stage fright, the lack of interest, the meager amount of money it pays you to be a classical musician? Take your pick."

"So, you would prefer to play music because you want to, not for someone else."

"Exactly."

"But you don't play now."

"I haven't wanted to."

"Why is that?" When all I gave her was a blank look, the psychiatrist just sat back and gave me more eye contact. What more did she want me to say? What did asking about my dead music career have to do with my being tested for autism? Was she trying to look for the right question to answer?

"Just not in the mood...?" I tried elaborating, but when her silent stare kept digging into me, I started to ramble. "My mom is the only person who wants me to play, but I just haven't found the right inspiration or motivation to play. It's not like I don't like playing the violin. I just don't particularly want to do it." I tucked an errant whisp of brown baby hair back behind my ear, feeling particularly aware of my face in the moment and the things touching it. Despite the fact that my ponytail had been holding back the large bulk of my long hair, a few strands always managed to roam free.

"Does your mother support your music?"

"My mom would be thrilled if I played more. But like I said, I'm just not interested right now."

"I see… You mentioned stage fright when talking about playing music. Are you afraid of playing in front of people?"

"No. Yes. I mean, who isn't afraid of performing in front of people? Lindsey Stirling and Hilary Hahn still get nervous when they play in front of crowds. But it's hard. The violin is the most difficult instrument to play. It's easy to make a mistake and ruin the whole song."

"So, you're afraid of screwing up in front of people." I felt my nails twist into the flesh of my forearms as I felt my jaw tighten. "Alright, it seems this subject seems a bit uncomfortable for you," I had to frown at that. It wasn't uncomfortable. I just didn't think these were relevant questions to my autism. I didn't get to voice that, however, as she continued like nothing had happened, "Let's move on to something else. Tell me something about yourself, like what brings you to Japan?"

I took in a fortifying breath, trying to find my starting line again after losing my train of thought. It felt like I was doing this all out of order. "Hmm what else about myself? Well, my name is Alyssa Blake. You already know that. I'm 26 years old, and for the past year I've been living in Japan with my mother and younger sister, Joelle, as a caretaker for my mom, who is currently receiving experimental treatment for her glioblastoma as part of a scientific cancer research study. In addition to that, I work as an assistant activity director at Sestra Towers Assisted Living and part-time as a driver at Enterprise Car Rental at the airport on weekends to help ends meet."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

I shrugged. "It's not so bad. My mom's not an invalid or anything. She can still get up and do things for herself, albeit with less energy, and I have my little sister to help out. Plus, we have a few friends who live on the military base nearby that check in on us periodically at our apartment complex."

"It's good to have a support system in check."

"Oh absolutely. I don't know what we would have done without them. Cheri has been Mom's biggest supporter since we moved to Japan. They used to teach together before Cheri did the PCOS move to Japan with her husband to teach English here."

"I see… And how has the move to Japan been for you?"

"Good, for the most part. I love that I get to experience all the stuff and shopping I've seen in anime and manga, but the first time I came here, there was a bit of an adjustment period with the different customs and navigation, but things are fine now. I think my mom is the one taking the move hardest."

"What makes you think that?"

"She's more anxious than usual. I think she's depressed that she can't go out and do normal things because of her health and her inability to speak Japanese, like run errands and shop at her favorite stores. All of her family and friends are in Indiana. We don't own cars anymore, and the one we do have we share with Cheri. Basically, the only people who are thrilled about the move to Japan are me and my sister, and that's because we're anime nerds. I think for her, it's very uncomfortable for her to be here. We can give her TV with English subtitles and channels and try and make it comfortable for her, but it's still a foreign country. I mean, the only reason she is in Japan is because she agreed to be a part of the trial."

"Sounds like a tense environment."

I tried ignoring the tightness growing in my chest as I waved my hand. "It's nothing new. She's always been like this since I've known her, except now she's worse because she has the whole mortality thing looming over her head. I think it doesn't help that her seizure meds mess with her anxiety and insomnia."

"And how long has this been going on?"

"About four years this July, though we've been in Japan for only one of them."

"That's a long time to be dealing with a terminal illness."

"It's fine. It's not as heavy as it was during the first few months of diagnosis. We're used to it by now. Outside of the occasional bad day where a seizure happens, it's like the cancer isn't even there."

"Does having your mother be uncomfortable make things harder on you?"

"Well, I mean you know the saying: 'If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy,'" I joked. The therapist made another scratch in her notebook. "But yeah, we're not- I mean, I love her and stuff, but we tend to clash a bit on how to do things. Different personalities, you know? Plus, she's an anxious person. Not like in a medical, I-Need-to-Take-Meds sort of way, but she's a worrier, like good mothers tend to be. She was largely involved with my life during the first stage of my life. 'I'm her firstborn', as she likes to say, so I got all the extra attention as a kid, especially when I had some health problems growing up-" I cut myself off, trying to make sure I wasn't overly coloring in the wrong picture of my life for the therapist. "Well, I say health problems, but it was more like I had a short stint of corrective hearing therapy and the whole being a Quirkless kid with autism kind of thing."

"I see… So you feel obligated to cater to her feelings because you felt like a burden by simply being harder to take care of than your sister growing up?"

"What- no! I mean, I'm care about her and her feelings- I'm not a monster -but I'm not doing it because I feel guilty about making her life hard. I'm still my own person with my own opinions. I just try to be considerate about what might upset her and try not to do that."

"I bet that's hard to do for long stretches when you have an anxious mother."

"Well yeah, but she's dying. She deserves to have special treatment. Plus, we literally have to be considerate of her feelings. It's not just for my mental health of not wanting to argue with her, but her actual physical health. Her seizures can be triggered by stress. Like the other day, she went with Cheri and my sister to enjoy a girls trip spa day and ended up having to be sent to the hospital because she got stressed out about it the night before. A hot springs spa. Worst of all, I had to cancel my date because of it."

"You didn't want to be a part of the girls trip?"

"No way. I'm not into all that pampering and stuff, not to mention I have stomach problems when it comes to new things and travel. It's all the fun parts of being autistic."

"That doesn't sound stressful at all."

"You've never travelled with her. She has to plan everything. Make the reservations, know the routes, pack the snacks, be on-time despite the fact that the Blake family is chronically late for everything. I also think she's nervous about how everyone here drives on the opposite side of the road from everyone in the US."

"So you avoid any extracurricular activities that don't agree with your preferences, and your mother is a part of that decision making process, which is why you would rather go on a date than spend quality time with your dying mother."

"No, that's not-" I said, hating how she twisted my words. "I mean, not entirely. If she wanted to go see a movie I liked, I'd be okay with it, but she doesn't really like the things I like. But yeah, I'd rather not do things like that with my mom."

"That's pretty selfish of you."

My mouth actually dropped open. Was she even allowed to say that? Wasn't she supposed to be all 'and how does that make you feel' about stuff?

"Well, I don't think so," I fired back.

"Why is that?"

"Because I might say something she doesn't like or she'll say something I don't like and get angry at my attitude, and we'll both end up at each other's throats by the end of it. I'm the opposite of selfish. I'm very considerate and unselfish," I admitted before backtracking. "Don't get me wrong. She's not critical just cause. She does it because she's worried about how I'll act to other people. My autism isn't exactly something I can control. I think she tries so hard to give me all the tools I'll need on how to be a good, fully functional adult that she worries when I struggle with it, and her worry and lectures trigger my own anxiety."

"I see… So you could argue and say that your mother's emotional wellbeing affects your own emotional wellbeing."

"I mean, not to be too much a psychological cliché, but yeah. 'It all goes back to the mother.'"

"Let's take a step back from your mother for a moment. Tell me about your father. Is he in the picture at all?" I felt some of the tension leave as my lips pressed into a smile.

"Oh, my dad's great. He's still living in Indiana with his new wife, Sandy, but before when we were in still in the US, he'd come over if Joelle and I needed help with something when he was in the area, like a broken toilet or help patch a tire. Typical dad stuff. But as far as being in Japan for this, no, he's not 'in the picture.'"

"It sounds like he's been married quite a few times."

"Oh yeah. He divorced my mom when I was nine, and then dumped the girl he had left her for a few years after that. Then he moved and married our next-door neighbor a few years after that and had her and her family move into our house for three years before he divorced her my senior year of high school. Now he's living his best life with wife number three and their dog Mattie for the last five years and take yearly trips to Florida."

"That's a lot of major changes." I just gave her a shrug like 'it is what it is.' "Did you like his second wife at all before he divorced her?"

"His second wife was nice, but her kids were a lot. I don't think they were very well adjusted before the marriage. I was kind of relieved when the divorce happened. It was nice when it was just the three of us."

"Did your father like to hang out with you and your sister?"

"Yeah, he would sometimes go do things with us on the days he had us for visitation, like go to the park or movies or arcades. We'd rent movies for ourselves almost every weekend at Family Video."

"But outside of that, when the visitation ended, did you go to visit him or did he come to visit you?"

"No, but like, why would he? We were off at college by then. We wouldn't need to go visit him."

"And what about after college?"

"Nothing. I mean, he'd come over if we needed something fixed and would come to visit on holidays like birthdays and stuff, but most of the year we don't really think about him. It's not like he's a bad guy. He's there when we need him, but he's just not as involved in our lives like our mother is."

Yorokobi hummed like she was making a mental note of that and scribbled something on her notebook. "So after you graduated college, did you ever try and move out?"

"Oh god no. By the time I was out of college, I was job hunting applying for full-time positions with VR's help, and later that summer, Mom had gotten diagnosed with cancer. Joelle still had a year left of school, so it didn't make sense for me to move out when I wasn't financially viable to move and there wasn't someone to watch Mom."

"I see… So you've been taking care of your Mom since the beginning of her diagnosis then."

Pride bloomed inside my chest as I puffed up a little at the recognition. "Oh yeah. Joelle may be hot shit by doing most of the caregiver legwork now, but I did all of this by myself for the first year of her cancer. I was the one stuck with her until Joelle graduated in the spring."

"You say 'stuck with her.' What were some of the things you did with her while Joelle was still in school?"

"Oh you know, chores, yardwork, make sure her medicine is taken on time, pay medical bills, get reimbursed, doing odd jobs she wanted sorted out like going through photos, making donation runs to Goodwill. You know, all the typical stuff you'd do if you were told you were going to die in two years."

"Sounds like you really stepped up as a daughter."

"Thanks, but I'm not nearly as good as Joelle. She just knows how to anticipate Mom's needs and just- BAM!" I clapped my hands together for emphasis. "-does them. I think it helps that they're so similar. They trade clothes all the time."

"It's easy to think that way. I imagine your mother has her own issues with Joelle separate from you."

"Yeah, but not all the time like me. Sometimes it feels like I can never do anything right…"

"Do you think your mom sees you that way?"

I had to think about that one for a moment. "I think she sees that I try, but it was never the way she would do it. I think she was frustrated that she couldn't do things by herself anymore. She was a very independent woman after the divorce, and I think getting cancer really messed with her. It's not like it comes from a place of being like her, but that she's worried I'll make a mistake later because of ignorance and wants to nip it in the bud early before it becomes a problem later on. Joelle does it too, sometimes, like pointing out a tone of voice or volume that might be offensive to someone, but to a lesser extent."

"I see… well, that appears to be all I need at the moment. Why don't we get started with the testing?"

"That's it?"

"That's it." I blinked at the sudden clinical coldness of her reaction as she abruptly switched tracks. All of that soul searching wasn't part of the test? What the hell? She was just going to leave me hanging like that, mother issues and all? Wasn't she going to ask about my sister or my dating life? Did I talk too long? I didn't think I had really talked that much about myself. The clock only read a quarter past eight. There was a whole world to crack under the surface. Was I boring her?

I tried to shake off the negative self-talk, reminding myself she wasn't supposed to be my actual therapist, but it was like she had gouged open a piece of flesh that had been infected with puss and refused to clean it. Just poked it with a stick and left it for the next doctor to poke around and prod, not even bothering to restitch the wound. I decided in that moment that I did not like Dr. Yorokobi and was glad she wasn't going to be my therapist.

Hours of rigorous testing later, that idea cemented further and upgraded from not liking her to detesting the very ground she walked on. Dr. Yorokobi still sat there, with her pink hair and perfect plastic smile, the only color in her impersonal office space and non-descript hotel art, and I was left mentally and physically spent, like all the things a person needs to function throughout the day had been sucked out of me with a bendy straw. I hadn't really known what to expect, but nothing like this. I barely made it to the door before I gave her a nod to whatever thing she said on the way out after I grabbed my paperwork. When I was sure I was a few good paces away from her office, my carefully crafted mask of togetherness began to crumple.

It had to be a mistake. There had to be. I was autistic. I was. That was it. Nothing more. No further explanation. It was just supposed to be a routine mental checkup, a confirmation that I did, in fact, have a mental disorder. She had just misunderstood my answers. There was no way I was… whatever it was that she had said to me. I couldn't recall in that moment the exact words in Japanese, my mental translation skills gone fishing with the rest of my cognitive functions, but it was hard to argue with a licensed professional, especially when she had complimented me on my Japanese skills earlier. It's not like I could ask her any questions, not after she just praised my Japanese skills. I couldn't admit to her that I couldn't read anything on the sheet about my new diagnosis, and I couldn't recognize the words she had told me. My kanji book was on my desk at home, and I barely had two braincells to rub together. I just knew whatever it was, it wasn't the worst-case scenario, but it wasn't good either- for me, at least. I considered getting a second opinion, but this had been a free diagnosis. Most people had to pay hundreds of dollars just to get tested, and VR had given me the chance for free. I should be just grateful for the opportunity. I had requested it, wanted to know if there was anything else, and now I had gotten my answer.

Now was the question of what to do now. She hadn't even mentioned the incident in our quickie therapy session. Wasn't she supposed to? Wasn't that the whole point in trying to get me into the right program? Then again, she was probably not going to be my actual therapist. The counselor handling my case said I would most likely be referred to someone else. Then I would have to do the first half of this session all over. Again.

My gut clenched at the thought about having to go through the whole icebreaker challenge again. Was every therapy session going to be like this, leaving me so listless and raw? God help me… My body sagged as I staggered out of the office building doors, feeling only the smallest spark of relief when I felt the warm spring air touch my face. The sun had been a nice boost of serotonin, but I still needed something more substantial than sunlight to charge my batteries. I needed… I needed…. something. Food, maybe?

I glanced at the Garmin vivofit2 that always was wrapped around my left wrist and nodded. It read 11:45am and remained locked in place, as it should be. Holy shit, I had been trapped in there for almost four hours. Food would be perfect right now. Breakfast had been nothing but a granola bar and a mouthful of applesauce, and I had about two hours before I had to be at work. Masako had been generous in letting me take a later shift, but it meant that I would be in charge of locking up and running the Thursday night game night. Somehow the idea of returning to work after being mentally tortured, even if many of them would largely be without my boss's prying eyes, filled me with even more dread and lethargy. I needed to get something into me now, otherwise my mood was going to drop into a hangry spiral.

Smacking my lips, I contemplated my options. I could run to the convenience store but didn't feel in the mood for snacks. Most of the food there would result in me having to find a trashcan or be covered in mayo, and red bean buns still reminded me too much of the Incident. I needed something hot, something hearty to fill the soul, not just another potato snack or onigiri. A huge bowl of white rice maybe or something on my safe, comfort food staples list, like a bowl of ramen or pork cutlet. My mouth watered that the idea of the second option. Fuck yeah. That sounded perfect. I could already taste the umami flavors of the fried egg and fried pork with the sweet balance of green onions and heaps white rice, all drizzled with that special brown sauce for which I had no name for.

Then I thought of someone else who would appreciate this more than me and felt a rush of all the other happy hormones. It was settled. I was already getting in line at the nearest food stall as I searched for the telltale picture and kanji sign for 'pig.' I pulled out my phone and tapped the phone icon over my messages and started typing.

'Hey, it's me. I'm coming over with lunch in twenty. Break out the good chopsticks because I need to vent.'

A/N: References are Nurse Joy from Pokémon. So glad to be back! This whole saga has been in two-year development hell due to my wanting to do too much, but I'm so glad that I managed to piece everything together and pace it out in the right places. I have always wanted to write a sequel to "Muse," but I wouldn't have died if it didn't. "Muse" was my first real attempt at writing and finishing a long-form romance story, which I am so proud of, but holy crap, it's over 200,000 words! Honestly, I keep thinking about cleaning up my old story and have my editor go through the painstaking process of condensing it into something more digestible, but then when I get down to it, I don't want to be mean to someone who is doing this for free by making them go through that, and I always end up wanting to keep everything because it all feels important in the moment (not to mention I love Chekhov's guns). That being said, I'm happy to give you more content to enjoy. I'll try and do better.

*Also, I would like to make a note that not all therapy is like this. While I have some experience with therapists, I am writing fictional characters and do not claim to be a professional psychologist. That being said, some talk had in this session can be harmful. Not all therapists are a good fit, so if this actually does happen to you, please look into a different therapist. Don't let one bad experience keep you from finding help and being able to say 'I would like I different therapist.' They will not be offended. They are not your friend. They are paid to listen. Anyone that doesn't let you go or let you ask for a referral is not keeping good practices for therapy.