A/N: I'm surprised I need to say this, but this won't make sense unless you read the previous four parts first! Also, this is kind of a slow burn if you want to get to the good stuff, so you'll need a bit of patience.
For a while,
everything
hurts. I avoid class for a couple of weeks, delaying the inevitable. When I do return my poise is non-existent, and my body feels like lead. I know she won't be there, but her absence still cuts deeper than I could've imagined.
The burn in my chest hurts worse than any criticism the Master throws my way in the following few lessons.
"Assemblé... Mia! I said Assemblé!"
"Andouille. It took you long enough...."
The other dancers whisper amongst themselves. I don't bother to listen.
With time the weight begins to lift. The pain is more of a dull ache, and I can dance again. My body is more in tune with itself than ever, and after weeks of criticism I'm no longer afraid of failing. When I step into the studio, the rest of the world falls away as the music swells and flows through me. I barely hear the Master's praise. I'm no longer dancing for anyone else - this is just for me.
I'd forgotten all about the number she left for me.
Uncovering it brings back our last moments together in all their searing glory. I resist the urge to press the paper to my nose and inhale any of her lingering scent, then throw it back where I found it and try to steady my breathing.
I try to ignore the persistent curiosity about why she would leave it for me. Or more specifically,
who
might answer if I were to call. One morning, before I can overthink it, I dial the number with trembling fingers.
A male voice answers. Of
course
it's not her. Then sadness is replaced by shame when the man introduces himself as a therapist. A
therapist.
Like I'm some kind of broken doll, and this is her way of easing her guilt now she's done playing with me.
I try to make my excuses, battling against my need to be polite. "I'm sorry, there's been a misunderstanding. A friend gave me this number, but-."
His tone is more gentle the next time he speaks. "Mia? I've been expecting you. Natasha said you might call. She-"
"It doesn't matter what she told you, because I still can't afford this."
"There's no charge - this is a favour for a friend."
"I don't care-"
He cuts me off firmly this time. "One conversation. If you want to walk away at the end of it then that's ok. I've been keeping some time free for you. Do you have a pen to hand?"
After, as I wrestle with the mess of emotions, I first curse my inability to say no. Then I try to feel furious about how patronising it is to decide a therapist was necessary without even speaking to me first... Finally, I accept that attending is inevitable, because I'd do anything if it meant feeling any kind of connection to Natasha again.
In a turn of events that isn't at all surprising in hindsight, it doesn't end up being one conversation. Weeks turn into months, and therapy is more painful, cathartic and worthwhile than I could have possibly imagined.
My therapist is bearded and handsome, a couple of decades older than I am. After a few sessions I also recognise him as a dominant. I'm ashamed to say that at one point I end up convincing myself that I'm in love with him. At the end of a session, I bite the bullet and ask him if he'd further my education by taking me on as his submissive.
After the longest, most awkward pause known to man, he clears his throat and looks at me with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
"Have you learned nothing about boundaries in these sessions, Mia? I thought we were making progress?"
Looking at literally anywhere but him, I bite my lip and begin gathering my things. I usually appreciate his humour, but, today, it makes the humiliation burn worse. He can read me like a book, however, and changes his approach.
"Mia, we need to address this appropriately. Now please, sit down."
I can't ignore the authority in his tone, so I slump back down opposite him. I want to resent him; but, deep down, I appreciate that he won't let me avoid things.
"I was very clear on my role as your therapist, was I not?" His tone is gentle, with just a hint of his usual humour.
"Yes, I understand... I understand how it would be completely inappropriate and unethical. But, as you hadn't been charging me, I thought maybe what you got out of this was..."
When I sneak a look at him, his face is a mixture of horror and exasperation. I've never seen him flustered, and if I wasn't so embarrassed I'd probably have found it funny.
"But that would mean that I was grooming you... do you really think that would be acceptable behaviour from me? Do you believe you deserve a therapist
or
a dominant who would manipulate you like that?"
I shake my head, my eyes glued back to the floor.
"Mia, please don't blame yourself. I made the assumption you had enough information about why I want to help you. It was my responsibility to ensure that boundary was firmly established, especially when I know how common it is for clients to develop feelings for their therapists."
"Is it common?" The shame lifts a little, but I still can't bring myself to look up.
"You aren't even
my
first client that I've had this conversation with. We talk about very personal things; if some wires become crossed it's easy for me to end up representing what you want from a partner. Does that make sense?"
"Oh... yes. Sort of."
"And, aside from the fact that I am your
