RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 69: FRIDA -

She sat in the therapist’s office once again. The place was prettier than she remembered. She sighed, rubbing her hands nervously.

The therapist, a woman with a kind smile, exuded warmth, the kind of warmth that made Frida want to reveal her deepest, darkest secrets.

The room was hyper-feminine: white lace curtains, super soft fluffy slippers, sweetheart-shaped seats, and heart-shaped plush pillows.

Everything looked like it belonged in a serene dream. The chamomile scent in the air completed the ambiance.

Frida felt almost too at ease, like she might drift off to sleep in this white heaven. She took the chamomile tea offered to her from a fine ceramic set and sipped. The warmth spread through her, easing her nerves slightly.

"It’s been a while, Frida," the therapist said softly, her voice as soothing as the tea.

Frida nodded, absently rubbing a plush pillow in circles. Its smiley face seemed to beam up at her.

"So, how have you been?" the therapist prompted gently.

Frida took a deep breath, her socked feet tucked up on the comfortable sofa. "Great," she said simply, but the tension in her voice betrayed her.

The therapist beamed, then tilted her head. "If everything’s fine, then why are you here?" she asked with a playful smirk.

Frida’s cheeks heated in embarrassment. She licked her lips nervously, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, um..."

"That was a lie," the therapist said with a soft laugh, sipping her own tea.

Frida frowned slightly. "Don’t you believe I can visit just to...visit?"

"If you were just visiting, you wouldn’t be so nervous. Spill the beans," the therapist teased, leaning forward slightly.

Frida sighed, setting her tea cup on the glass table in front of her. "I think my friend murdered someone."

The shock on the therapist’s face was brief but telling.

"Yeah," Frida added quickly, "this was a bad idea." She made a move to grab her cup again, but the therapist’s calm voice stopped her.

"No, not at all. It’s just...not what I expected. Wow." She adjusted her expression, her features softening back into that practiced calm. "Did you tell the cops?"

Frida shook her head, her gaze fixed on the polka dots on her socks. "No."

"Why not?" The therapist’s pen hovered over her notepad, waiting.

Frida hesitated, then finally met the woman’s gaze. "Because I like him."

The therapist nodded, her pen moving as she scribbled a note. "And you think he isn’t the killer?"

Frida nodded again.

The therapist tilted her head. "So, you’re in doubt?"

"Yeah." Frida’s voice was barely above a whisper. She fidgeted with the plush pillow until she blurted out, "What do you think about BDSM?"

The therapist’s eyes widened slightly before she blinked and cleared her throat. Her tone remained professional. "It’s some people’s kink. It can be intense, but it’s okay as long as safe and sterile methods are used."

Frida’s cheeks flushed deeper. Her fingers toyed with the edges of the pillow. "I had a dream," she began hesitantly.

The therapist didn’t interrupt, her focus entirely on Frida.

"In that dream, he cuffed me and blindfolded me." Frida’s voice wavered as she confessed. "He used a sensual flogger...and then the shower hose..."

She trailed off, her face burning. The therapist’s lips parted, then closed, and she took a deliberate sip of tea before responding. "Did you like it?"

Frida groaned, running her hands through her hair. "I did. I liked it so much, it’s embarrassing. What kind of person gets off on that...on their friend?" She buried her face in her hands.

The therapist’s pen resumed its quiet scratching on paper. "I think you might be experiencing maladaptive daydreaming. It’s not necessarily classified as a mental illness, but it involves vivid fantasies that interfere with reality."

Frida chuckled, letting out a long sigh. "So, you think I’m crazy?"

The therapist shook her head. "No. I think you’re barely getting any sleep, and your fantasies are blending with reality."

Frida sighed loudly, staring up at the ceiling. "What do I do? I’ve been avoiding him."

"The guy you like and the guy you think might be the murderer, they’re the same person, aren’t they?" The therapist pinched the bridge of her nose as if bracing for a headache.

Frida nodded. "I...I fear so."

The therapist leaned back, her hands clasped together. "Have you tried communicating with him? Instead of running from your problems?"

Frida groaned in frustration. "Yeah, communication is a big problem for me. When something’s wrong, I’d rather withdraw than reach out."

The therapist dropped her pen onto the file in front of her. "I think you should talk to him."

Frida laughed humorlessly. "I did. I asked him if he was the murderer."

The therapist’s palm met her forehead with an audible smack. "Oh my God. Situationships are hard."

Frida slouched deeper into the sofa. "I know. It was dumb."

"What if he hurts you?" the therapist asked, her tone serious.

Frida’s response was immediate. "He’s hurt me before."

The therapist’s eyes widened. "And you still like him?"

Frida nodded, her voice small. "I know it’s crazy. But that’s just me. That’s why I’m having trust issues."

The therapist’s smile returned, this time softer and more knowing. "Even though you don’t trust him yet, baby steps. No one is perfect. Not him, not you."

Frida’s heart softened at the words. She checked her wristwatch and sighed. "The session’s almost over."

The therapist offered a final piece of advice. "Talk to him. If he really is the killer, run as fast as you can and call 911. But if he’s not, it might save you a lot of trouble."

Frida smiled faintly as she left the office. "Communication," she muttered under her breath.

As she stepped outside, the darkening sky greeted her with the promise of rain. She groaned.

And then she saw him, standing like a prince in a tailored coat and cream turtleneck. His grey eyes softened when they met hers. "It’s going to rain," he said, his cheeks faintly pink.

She walked toward him slowly, deliberately, her heart pounding. He held out a beige box of snacks. "We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you getting sick because of your exams."

She stopped in front of him, searching his eyes. "Can we communicate?"

His lips curled into a smile. "I’d love that."