And then he would wonder—who was the girl sitting in front of him?
Was she really his daughter?
Or someone else, wearing her face?
Gu Jin’s throat tightened.
Her walls went up without her even thinking about it.
"I don’t remember," she said, her voice flat, empty again. "Maybe it was just always ."
Dr. Yuan didn’t push. He only nodded, watching her closely.
"Alright," he said softly. "We can start from there."
Dr. Yuan let a few seconds pass in silence, as if giving her space to breathe.
Then he asked, gently, "Do you have trouble sleeping?"
Gu Jin hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. It’s hard to fall asleep. Harder to stay asleep."
"Not always," she said. "It’s more like... my brain doesn’t stop. It keeps running even when I want it to stop."
Dr. Yuan tilted his head slightly. "Do you ever feel like you’re just... going through the motions?"
"All the time," Gu Jin replied without hesitation. "It’s like I’m watching someone else live my life."
"And when something good happens—when people smile at you, praise you—do you feel anything?"
Gu Jin looked at the floor.
"Sometimes I think I’m happy," she said slowly. "But it disappears so fast, I can’t be sure if it was real."
Dr. Yuan nodded quietly. His expression didn’t change, but there was a weight behind his eyes now. A deeper understanding—or maybe a deeper concern.
He looked over at Mr. Gu, then back at Gu Jin.
Then he said, "Mr. Gu, could I ask you to step out for a few minutes?"
Mr. Gu frowned. "Why?"
Dr. Yuan gave him a calm, steady look. "I need to speak with Gu Jin alone for a moment. It’s important. Please trust me."
Mr. Gu’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was about to protest again. But then he looked at Gu Jin—at her still posture, her guarded expression—and something in his face softened.
"...Alright," he said quietly, rising from the yellow sofa. "I’ll be right outside."
Gu Jin didn’t watch him go. She kept her eyes fixed on the red thread sewn into the edge of a pillow beside her.
Once the door clicked shut, Dr. Yuan leaned forward again. The warmth in his voice cooled, not harsh but serious now.
"Gu Jin," he said, "if there’s anything you’re hiding, you need to say it now."
Gu Jin looked up slowly.
"I’m not hiding anything."
Dr. Yuan gave her a long, steady look. His gaze wasn’t accusing—but it was sharp, cutting through whatever mask she tried to wear.
"You don’t lose touch with your emotions for no reason," he said softly. "Not . Not to this extent."
Gu Jin didn’t respond. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sofa cushion.
Dr. Yuan continued, "For someone to feel so far removed from themselves... they must have gone through pain. Deep pain. And not just once."
His voice lowered, as if speaking a truth most people didn’t want to hear.
"They must have been betrayed. Rejected. Left to suffer alone. So many times, they stopped believing in connection altogether."
Gu Jin stared at him, unmoving.
"It takes more than sadness to build walls like yours," he said. "It takes losing the will to live... and choosing to keep living anyway."
Her breath caught, so faint it was barely a sound.
Dr. Yuan didn’t press. He just sat there, calm and quiet, letting his words settle.
"I don’t know what you’ve been through," he said gently. "But I know that whatever it was... it left scars you’re still carrying."
Gu Jin’s throat felt tight again, but she said nothing.
"If you keep burying it, it’s not going to disappear," Dr. Yuan warned. "You’ll keep drifting farther and farther from yourself, until one day, even you won’t recognize who you are."
He looked at her with a calm intensity.
"I’m not asking for every detail. But if you want help, real help, you have to stop pretending nothing’s wrong."
Gu Jin closed her eyes briefly.
Dr. Yuan watched her carefully as she closed her eyes, her face still calm, unreadable. But behind that stillness, he sensed something more—something buried far too deep.
Slowly, quietly, he let out a breath and reached inward, summoning the power of his psychic element. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just opened a small thread of connection between his mind and Gu Jin’s.
And instantly, he regretted it.
A sharp, brutal pain exploded in his chest.
It wasn’t his own pain.
Agony tore through him, not like a wound, but like a scream echoing through every corner of his soul. He felt sorrow so thick it drowned the air, betrayal so sharp it slashed like knives, and a loneliness so endless it made the world feel hollow.
He gripped the armrest of his chair, body tensing.
A moment longer and he would’ve vomited blood. A moment longer and he might have fainted from the sheer pressure of her hidden suffering.
With a shuddering breath, Dr. Yuan cut the connection—just in time.
A faint, bitter taste filled his mouth. Blood. He wiped the corner of his lips quickly with his sleeve, hiding the red smear before Gu Jin could open her eyes.
When she did, she found him sitting quietly, gaze focused but no longer probing.
"I don’t understand what you’re trying to say," she said flatly.
Dr. Yuan gave a weak chuckle—more tired than amused. "That’s alright. I understand that you don’t want to talk right now."
He leaned back slowly, letting his body relax again. "You can go, Gu Jin. Call your father back in."
Gu Jin narrowed her eyes, sharp and suspicious. "You’d better not say anything you shouldn’t say."
Dr. Yuan raised a brow, lips twitching. "I know what to say to my employer. You don’t need to teach me my job."
She stood, calm and poised despite the fire behind her gaze.