childish wonder, case one, irish tourists:

Aka. The daddy issues
'Oh, he's Irish'

Rosalie sat in the worn-out, leather chair, legs crossed, one arm slung casually over the backrest. The walls of the small room were painted a neutral shade of beige, decorated sparsely with a few pieces of generic art. Her therapist, Miles Santiago, sat opposite her, notebook in hand, his eyes not quite meeting hers but focusing on the space between them. He was always patient, never forcing her to open up. It was a skill she both appreciated and found mildly irritating.

"So, how was your day yesterday, Rosalie?" Miles asked, his voice calm but not overly soothing. He didn't try to act like he could solve her problems with a few magic words. He knew better.

Rosalie shrugged, leaning back further into the chair. "Boring. Same old." She flicked a lock of hair over her shoulder, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve. She'd painted her nails in black earlier, and now she was peeling it off in small flakes, trying to distract herself.

"I take it that means you're still feeling... unchallenged?" he probed, watching her quietly.

"Unchallenged? I don't know. I mean, people think they're interesting, but they're really just... not." She let out a small chuckle, like the thought of the world around her was amusing but also exhausting. "Like, they think everything's such a big deal. Not every crime scene is some huge existential crisis, y'know?"

Miles made a note in his book. "And how did the crime scene affect you yesterday?"

Rosalie didn't answer immediately. She was too busy picking at the skin on her fingers. There was a long, deliberate silence before she finally replied, her tone almost light. "It didn't." She looked up at him briefly. "I mean, I saw it. I didn't not see it. But I don't... feel anything, really. It's like, what's the point of acting all shocked?"

"And how does that make you feel?" Miles asked gently, though there was a clear undercurrent of curiosity in his question.

"Uh, like I'm tired of people expecting me to care about things I don't," she responded, her voice flat. "Like when they look at me, all worried or like I'm some kind of psychopath, just because I'm not crying and losing my shit over every little thing. What's the point? People die, people live. It's what happens. Not my problem, really."

Her eyes darted around the room, avoiding his gaze. There was always a moment, he noticed, where she did this—fidgeted, looked everywhere but at him, like being seen directly made her... uneasy. He didn't press it.

"I get it," he said after a moment. "It's like you're supposed to fit into a role. You're not supposed to be 'cold,' right?"

Rosalie snorted, a dark chuckle escaping her lips. "Cold, yeah. Sure. Whatever they want to call it." She shrugged again, her voice lighter now. "I mean, it's not like I'm asking anyone to like me. I just exist, that's all. But everyone's got their opinions, and they can't seem to accept that I'm just... me. It's not that I don't have feelings or sympathy, I'm just not gonna waste feelings on things that don't matter."

Miles leaned back in his chair, still writing, but his eyes never left her. "And who is 'just you,' Rosalie? What do you like? What do you care about?"

There it was. The question.

Rosalie's face flickered with something — a brief flash of discomfort before it quickly turned to indifference. She quickly shifted her posture, sliding her feet off the chair and onto the floor as she leaned forward.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, almost too quickly. "I don't care about anything. I just want to live my life without people telling me I'm broken or need fixing. I don't need fixing, I'm managing just fine. I've not even used meth in almost four months. I'm clean, I'm fine."

Miles didn't look at her with sympathy, though. He just looked at her with that neutral expression he always wore, as if he'd seen a hundred people like her before. Which he probably had.

"And you don't think you need help at all?" he asked, his tone neutral, not accusing, just... open.

Rosalie gave him a short laugh, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Help? No. Maybe, I get why Greg worries, and I understand why the government spy on me. But I'm not as broken as I seem. I know I need some help, but not to the intensity I'm getting. I just... don't like being treated like I'm a walking therapy case. Or a puzzle that needs solving. I'm not going to kill myself." She paused for a beat. "I just wanna talk. You know? But not about my problems."

There it was. The truth. She didn't want to deal with the mess inside her head. She just wanted to get through the day without having to open up about things that made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Miles put his pen down, folding his hands on the desk. He gave her a long, thoughtful look before speaking. "So... what do you want to talk about today?"

Rosalie raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. "I... what?"

"Well," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, "if you want to just chat, we can do that. I'm fine with it. What's been on your mind lately?"

She paused, caught between the instinct to avoid and the temptation to fill the silence with something. Anything. But what? Her eyes flicked toward the window, watching the world pass by. A kid on a skateboard, an older woman carrying groceries, a dog barking.

"Uh," Rosalie began, dragging her words out as she fidgeted with her sleeve again, "I dunno. I've been thinking about... how people just... exist, you know? Like, you're just here, and then one day you're not. People are obsessed with meaning, but it's like... do we even need it?"

Miles let her talk, sensing this was as close as she was going to get to a real thought for the day.

"I mean, what's the point?" she continued, a slight edge to her voice now. "People stress over everything, and nothing changes. You know what I mean? I think I'd rather just... I dunno, do what I want without giving a shit about what anyone thinks."

There it was again. The fear of being 'tied down,' of being made to feel 'less than.'

"That sounds like freedom," Miles observed. "But do you ever feel like you're running away from something? Or trying to escape something?"

Rosalie's face tightened for a split second, then she forced herself to relax again. "I'm not running from anything. I'm just... existing. Is that so hard to get?"

It was a deflection, but Miles didn't push. Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, making sure to keep his voice steady. "I get it. But you don't have to be alone in this. You can talk to me whenever you're ready. No pressure."

She didn't respond to that, but she seemed to settle into the chair a little more, her arms no longer crossed. She fidgeted with her lighter again, a subtle sign that she was thinking, even if she didn't want to admit it.

"I don't need saving, Santiago," Rosalie muttered after a beat, almost under her breath.

"I know," Miles replied, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. "But you don't have to carry everything on your own, either."

Another long pause. Then Rosalie sighed, letting the words settle for a moment. "Maybe."

Rosalie's fingers twitched as she absentmindedly flicked the lighter on again, the small flame dancing in front of her eyes. Miles noticed the slight shift in her demeanor, the subtle tension that crept into her shoulders. He could tell she was turning something over in her mind, but she hadn't yet spoken about it.

"You mentioned your father the other day," Miles said, his voice still calm, "but you didn't go into much detail. Would you like to talk about him?"

For a long moment, Rosalie didn't respond. She continued to play with the lighter, her eyes focused on the small flame as if it was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. Her silence stretched on, but Miles didn't push; he knew sometimes the most painful things were the hardest to say.

Finally, Rosalie's voice broke the silence, soft but with an edge to it, almost like she was testing the waters. "I don't know my father. Just that he's Irish. That's it. That's all I know." Her voice hardened slightly, almost as if she was frustrated at her own lack of knowledge.

Miles watched her closely. "What does that feel like, to not know more about him?"

Rosalie's lips twitched, a bitter little smile playing at the edges of her mouth. "Feels like a dead end." She looked up at him briefly, her expression guarded. "Everyone else has their dads around. My friends? They talk about their dads like they're these big, important figures. And I'm just... stuck with this empty name. 'Oh, he's Irish.' Or, 'I think he's dead'. That's it. Doesn't really say much, does it?"

She paused for a moment, tapping the lighter against her knee, her fingers tight around it. Her eyes turned cold, distant. "My mom used to talk about him sometimes. Not a lot, but when she did, it was like she was holding back something. She would say stuff like, 'Your father's not good for you,' and 'He's not someone you should ever meet.'"

She leaned back in the chair, her eyes growing distant again. "It was always the same thing. Nothing. I mean, what kind of dad just leaves their kid? Why wouldn't he want to know me? Why wouldn't he care?"

Rosalie's fingers gripped the lighter a little tighter. She was getting close to something she didn't want to deal with, but it was leaking out anyway, little by little. She was good at hiding things, but when it came to her dad, there was just too much space in her heart to keep it all locked away.

"I've tried looking for him, you know?" she muttered, almost to herself. "I thought if I just found him, everything would make sense. But it's like chasing shadows. He's just gone. No traces. I've checked the system, all the records, whatever I could, but it's like he never existed. He's not even on my birth certificate. I'm not allowed to do a DNA test, I'm not too sure why."

She let out a long breath, her face twisted in a mix of frustration and something else. Something that looked like longing. She didn't like the feeling, but it was there. She couldn't push it down any longer.

"I'm just... stuck with this hole," Rosalie continued, her voice softer now, like she was admitting something she hadn't wanted to. "A part of me wonders if it's better not knowing, you know? Like, what if I meet him and he's just some bastard? I wouldn't even know how to deal with that. But then, there's a part of me that wonders what it would be like... to actually have answers. Like, why did he leave me? Why wasn't I good enough? Or did he not know I exist? Was my mum the bad guy?"

Her voice cracked slightly at the end of the sentence, but she quickly masked it with a cough and a shrug. She didn't want to show weakness, especially not now. Not to him.

Miles sat silently for a moment, giving her space to breathe, to let the words settle. "Rosalie," he began, his tone measured, "it sounds like you're feeling torn. On one hand, you don't want to have to face the reality of what your father might be. On the other, there's a part of you that needs those answers. But it's not just about finding him. It's about what you'd do with that knowledge. And what it would mean for you."

Rosalie scoffed, her eyes rolling. "Well, at this point, it doesn't matter, does it? I'm seventeen. It's like, whatever. He's gone, and I'm still here. But sometimes, I just can't shake the feeling that if I knew who he was, maybe I'd have a better idea of who I am. Maybe I wouldn't feel like this — like I don't belong anywhere."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, the vulnerability creeping in despite her best efforts to push it down.

"I don't want to be like him," she continued, quieter now. "But I think maybe I'm already turning into him. I'm not the same, but there's something... in me. It's like a feeling I can't shake."

"And what feeling is that?" Miles asked, his voice gentle.

She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if she was considering how much to reveal. "It's this... emptiness. Like, no matter what I do, nothing ever feels enough. It's like chasing something that's always out of reach." She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Maybe that's just my dad's legacy. He was always out of reach. And now, I feel like I am, too."

Miles nodded thoughtfully. "It's understandable that you'd feel like that, Rosalie. When someone leaves you—especially a parent—it leaves a mark. And it's not just about them not being there physically. It's about the space they leave in your life, the things they don't say, the answers you never get."

Rosalie's jaw clenched slightly, but she didn't say anything for a moment. She just stared at him, like she was weighing something in her mind.

"Do you think I should try to find him?" she asked, her voice unusually small, though her eyes remained sharp.

Miles considered her question carefully. "That's something only you can decide, Rosalie. But if you do, you need to be ready for whatever you might find. Whether it's the answers you want or not."

Rosalie didn't respond at first. She just looked out the window again, her fingers still fidgeting with her lighter. Her thoughts seemed to be a million miles away, drifting in and out of focus.

Finally, she looked back at Miles. "I don't know if I'm ready to face that yet."

"That's okay," Miles said, offering a small, understanding smile. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. But when you're ready, you'll know."

Rosalie nodded, her expression unreadable as she shifted in her seat. "Yeah. Maybe."