Harleen stands by the refreshment table after the main meeting, shifting her weight awkwardly and picking at the rim of her cup. Tiny flakes of styrofoam float unappealingly in the coffee, but she only has it to hide that she has no idea what to do with her hands. She took one sip and it was too bitter and acidic to be actually palatable for her tastes (hot cups of flavored creamers, with a hint of coffee).

Her head was swimming with too much possibility to actually pay attention during the meeting, and she hadn't really absorbed anything that had been said. She was too used to leading group sessions. Being therapized was an uncomfortable change of roles. Harleen had declined speaking to her own experience. Maybe next time. Maybe the time after. Maybe never.

Eventually she takes a breath, puts on her big girl pants, and smiles thinly at the next person to come up to the table. "How many of these things have you been to?"