I sit in the chair while the therapist sits opposite. The first time I came to therapy I was disappointed that there wasn’t a leather couch I could lie down on. I’m probably just a victim of media misinformation.

Psychiatrist. Psychologist. Counsellor. I don’t even know what she is. The word ‘therapist’ covers a lot of ground.

The office is pleasant. There’s a wide window that lets in plenty of light and there are bright prints on the walls. No framed certificates or diplomas that I can spot. A vase of flowers on the windowsill. It’s a place designed to be comfortable and welcoming. Maybe that’s the jarring feeling. That it was designed to be a certain way. Misdirection isn’t only used by magicians.

‘How can I help you today, Grace?’

‘You tell me.’

We always start the same way. Every time I’ve been here, which is plenty of times. Two months between appointments. Five years. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, if anything. She doesn’t either, or if she does, she’s never given me any clue. We just talk, though mostly I sit in silence because I don’t know the answers to her questions. Not the questions she asks, but the ones she’s really digging for answers to.

Why don’t you have any friends?

Why are you so obsessive about magic?

Why don’t you do what other teenage girls do?

How do you feel about your mother?

How do you feel about your father and the way he died?

How do you feel?

How do you feel?

How do you feel?

I can’t answer any of those. Maybe she thinks that after five years it will suddenly come to me, but I don’t think it will.

Perhaps I’m crazy. It would explain a lot.

But I don’t think I am.

I like being sealed in my head. And this woman, with her smart clothes and ready smile and an office designed to put me at ease, isn’t going to get the key anytime soon. My head is my own, locked and bolted. I don’t want anyone in there.