The Therapist Who Could Read Minds

Dr. Evelyn Shaw had always believed in the power of listening.

For over a decade, she sat in a soft leather chair across from broken people. She let their words wash over her, unfiltered and unjudged. Her voice was always calm, her expressions unreadable, her notes discreet. She never interrupted. She listened, intently, quietly. That was her superpower—until one day, she developed another.

It started on a Thursday.

Her patient, Mark Reynolds, a 42-year-old accountant with anxiety, was in the middle of describing a childhood memory. His lips were moving, but Evelyn’s attention snagged on something else—a phrase, whispered clearly in her mind.

> “I hate this story. She’s going to think I’m pathetic.”



The voice didn’t belong to her. The words didn’t align with what Mark was actually saying.

She blinked. Her breath caught.

“Mark,” she interrupted, “did you just say... you think I’ll judge you?”

Mark stopped talking and looked confused. “I didn’t say that.”

Evelyn forced a smile. “Sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

But she hadn’t misunderstood. She’d heard it—inside her head.

Over the next week, the whispers continued.

With every new session, Evelyn started to pick up two versions of every client’s reality: the verbal one, and the hidden one. Sometimes, they matched. Most times, they didn’t.

One patient talked about loving her husband, while her thoughts screamed, “I’m having an affair with his best friend.”

Another smiled politely, saying therapy was helping, while his mind muttered, “This is a waste of time. I’m not getting better.”

The voices weren’t loud. They didn’t come all at once. But they were there—always there. At first, Evelyn told herself she was imagining things. But the accuracy became undeniable.

She tried to use her newfound ability for good.

When she heard a young girl think, “He’ll kill me if I tell,” Evelyn steered the conversation gently and discovered signs of abuse.

When a teenage boy’s inner voice muttered, “No one would miss me,” she booked an emergency session and likely saved his life.

But the more she listened, the more she heard things she didn’t want to.

Dark secrets. Hidden betrayals. Thoughts people didn’t even admit to themselves.

And worst of all: the lies they told her.

“This therapist is clueless.”

“She’s just waiting to cash another session.”

“I wonder what she’s hiding under all that calm.”

The noise grew. The whispers no longer waited for her to begin a session. They followed her into elevators. Grocery stores. Sleep.

Then came a day she would never forget.

Her last client of the afternoon, Danielle, was a bright-eyed woman in her 30s, who had come in for mild relationship stress.

She spoke softly, describing her partner’s controlling behavior and how she wasn’t sure if it was toxic or if she was just "too sensitive."

Evelyn listened, nodding. Then the voice came.

> “I hope she doesn’t find out what I did to him. The poison was tasteless. He hasn’t connected the dots yet.”



Evelyn’s pen froze in mid-air.

Danielle was still talking about a dinner fight, about some wine that her partner didn’t like. But Evelyn heard it again.

> “I only gave him a little... I had to know if I could do it. No one ever takes me seriously. But he will. When it’s too late.”



The words weren’t metaphorical. They were cold, deliberate.

Evelyn’s pulse raced. Her mouth went dry.

Should she report this? But there was no evidence. Danielle hadn’t said anything. The law was murky on what constituted a threat, and even murkier on... telepathy.

Was she hallucinating?

She smiled tightly and wrapped up the session early. “Danielle, let’s book again next week, okay?”

“Sure,” Danielle said sweetly, standing up. “I always feel better after talking to you.”

But her mind whispered, “You won’t feel better after what I do next.”

That night, Evelyn stared at her ceiling, sleepless. She was starting to unravel.

She could no longer trust her own silence. Every person on the street was a chaos of noise. She wore headphones in public, blasting white noise. She took sleeping pills. Drank wine. Meditated.

Nothing worked.

The voices got louder.


---

Then came the final voice—her own.

She looked in the mirror one morning, sunken eyes and pale skin staring back.

> “You think you’re helping people. You’re not. You’re a fraud.”



The whisper wasn’t new. But this time, it echoed louder than all the rest. She couldn’t outrun it. Couldn’t silence it.

And she knew then: this wasn’t a gift. It never was.


---

Six months later, Evelyn no longer practiced therapy.

She lived alone, disconnected from friends and family. She wrote letters she never sent. She watched people from afar but never got close.

The world was too loud. People were too broken.

And their secrets? Too dangerous to carry.

Sometimes she wondered if she could use this curse for something else—espionage, politics, fame. But those paths were slippery and seductive. And Evelyn knew too well how easily one’s mind could turn against itself.

But late at night, sometimes she still listens.

And wonders: What if someone else out there can hear the voices too?

And what if... they’re listening to her?