I twirl the pen around my fingers as the woman drones on. How many times have we discussed this already? Yet the patient continues her painfully familiar monologue.

"I mean she's beautiful and confident, and-- and..."

"Successful?" 

The woman looks over at me, surprised. She shouldn't be: they're her exact words. I flip through my notes on our previous sessions, "Imaginative. Funny. Perfect. You once described her as a female Superman. Which, if I'm not mistaken, would just be Supergirl. Maybe Wonder Woman?" 

I snap my notebook shut. "For someone who can't compare, you seem to do little else."

A chair creaks behind me. My professor, Dr. Treadmore, pushes himself to his feet. He rests an old hand on my shoulder, "Excuse us a moment, Ms. Summers. If I may have a word, Mr. Ryland."

Speaking of painfully familiar monologues. I reluctantly follow him out of the room, already guessing what "word" he wants to have with me. As he shuts the door behind us, he gives me an exasperated look. 

"For being such a bright student, you certainly have little sense."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

It's an earnest question. Every session is the same problem, and every session she ignores my advice. I tick off just a few on my fingers, "Limit time on social media. Keep a mindfulness journal. Start tracking personal progress-- She doesn't listen, Dr. Treadmore!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, "It's not her job to listen, Silas."