“So I just write a story?” He turned away from the screen and looked at me. “That sounds pretty simple.”

“It is. Write about anything you want.” I was hoping this might be a good way for him to express himself in a new way. Creative therapy has been used before, I don’t see why this wouldn’t be another successful case.

“Can I write about this?” He seemed cautious, I tried to reassure him.

“I don’t see why not.” He started typing. I looked over his shoulder and watched him type the last few lines of our conversation.

“What if I want to change something?” He paused, searching for the words. “I want to make the story different.”

“That’s OK too.” He kept typing, our words appeared on the screen.

“Like, in my story, I’m not alone. There’s someone here with me; watching me type”

I looked at him, confounded. “But you’re not alone. I’m right here.”

“That’s because I wrote you into my story.”

I looked up from my keyboard (I still can’t touch type ) and scanned the wholly empty room.

I wish I wasn’t alone.

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