Original prompt by: /u/Flaky_Explanation

"This...doesn't seem like therapy."

Her voice was hesitant, subdued. It was the voice of someone who had learned harsh lessons. A voice that was created and not born. Created from trial and hardship. She physically cringed, a learned response.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

His voice was calm and mellow. A smooth timber crafted from countless encounters. His voice was measured, no highs nor lows, an even sound that encouraged discourse and not discord.

She did not know what to make of that voice.

"I mean, I thought therapy was me talking to someone."

"Well we are doing that," he said with a gentle smile. "Or am I imagining things again?"

She snorted and her face went red. "I mean, I thought I would be like, lying on a couch and you sitting behind a desk and taking notes. Not..." she gestured around her, "like this." She stood in a small kitchen. A simple stove next to a counter of plain wood. Vegetables and ingredients laid along the counter, measured out and separated. A clean and well used kitchen knife sat beside a wooden cutting board. The utensils were clean and old, but shone with a loving glow.

The therapist grinned. "Well we could do that if you prefer it. The couch back in my office is very comfortable. I have napped in it many times. However, I thought you would appreciate this. It's an exercise that I enjoy and I find that some people do well with it. Would you like to try?"

She shrugged. "I guess..." She picked up the knife at his gesture and started to cut the vegetables. Deep orange carrots fell apart in small half moons. Off-white onion went from a sphere into thin slivers. Long green celery turned from a single stalk into a pile of quartered chunks.

He nodded approvingly. "Well done. I can see that you are good at that."

Her cheeks colored again, embarrassment at being praised, embarrassment from wanting more. "I...my mother taught me when I was little. I really liked to cook. Some of my favorite memories were cooking with her and learning from her." The knife slowed and became still. "I haven't thought about them...her...in so long."

He watched her stand still, stand silent. "Because you didn't want to? Or because you were forced not to."

"Both? Neither! I...don't know." She started to cut again, faster, wilder, less restrained.

"It is okay," he said softly. He did not raise his voice, he did not try to grab her hand. "Think about it a little. It is okay to not know. We are here to understand. Take your time."

She breathed deep and exhaled, her voice hitched a little. "I think I stopped thinking about it because I was happy back then. So happy. And being happy then and not being happy while thinking about it...made me hurt more. And then being told that what I made didn't taste good, that it didn't amount to anything. I...I think that made me not want to think about it."

He watched her add the vegetables to the pot of water, watched as she continued to cut chicken apart and add it to the pot. The water came to a boil and the air slowly took the aroma of the soup. She skimmed the scum away, stirring slowly. He could tell her body was moving on memory. Her body was in the present, her mind in the past, her eyes seeing neither.

"It smells good," he said.

She shook her head. A sharp gesture. She was disagreeing with him. She did not want to agree with him. Her movements remained robotic as she stirred and stared.

"You do not agree?" he asked.

She shook her head again, a desperate act. "I...I can't smell it. I mean I can. But it doesn't smell good. It smells bad to me." Tears grew in her eyes. "This was my favorite soup. Why does it smell bad to me?"

He smiled sadly. "I think we know why. It is the same reason that you stopped thinking about your mother and about cooking. It is the same reason you loss so much weight and became malnourished. It is the same reason you hurt. It is why you are hear."

Her tears fell like rain. "He broke me!"

He nodded.

"I'm broken now, he took all that I loved!"

He shook his head. "No, you are not broken." Unnoticed by her, his eyes went from chestnut brown to cerulean blue. She glowed in his sight and he could see an outline of her floating before her. It was an almost perfect facsimile save large cracks ran through the form. Some parts floated free from others. The edges were obscured, clad in thick cloying smoke. A shattered soul inside a broken frame.

Her head shook. "You agreed that I was broken!"

"I agreed that you were broken by another, something no one deserves to have done to them. Yet you are not broken. A broken thing does not seek help. Something broken remains broke, it does not try to be repaired. You are here for help, you know that you need it. Therefore, you are not broken. You are in need of repair."

Her laugh was as shattered as her soul, full of sharp edges. It grated and tore. "I don't know how to repair myself!"

"That is why you are here. A broken cup cannot repair itself. It needs someone to put the pieces back together. However, a person cannot just simply be fixed like that. The person must want to be fixed, they must want to try and get better. I can help repair things, I cannot do it without you."

The rain continued to fall on her face, a cold rain brought by despair. "I don't know if I can."

"I believe it can. Broke does not mean broken. You are strong. You survived. You are here now."

The silence was heavier than a mountain, louder than thunder.

"I'll try," she whispered.

At her words her soul form began to glow to his eyes. He saw the pieces pulsate in the air. The edges, once clad in veils and curtains, revealed themselves in their terrible raw forms. He reached out and slowly teased one of the cracks. He drew on her new light, slowly reknitting the pieces together. A different light drifted from his fingers, a darker color that filled the cracks.

She did not notice any of this. Her eyes were sealed shut in a vain attempt to contain her tears. As the cracks were filled, her pieces remade, the tears continued to fall. However they transformed from the freezing hail of despair into a warm deluge, a release instead of an assault.

He blinked, his eyes fading back to brown. Her form disappeared. There were still broken pieces, still cracks and rents and tears, but the woman that stood before him seemed more whole than broken.

The tears slowly stopped and she shuddered. She took an offered tissue and blew her nose noisily. She sniffled and her eyes opened wide. She sniffed again, a deep breath. "I can smell it," she whispered. Her voice was desperate, as if saying it meant it was real. "I can smell the soup again! It's not the same as it was...but I can smell it."

He smiled. "A first step. A first crack filled." He handed her a bowl. It was a dark brown bowl and along one side there was a raised edge. A thick golden colored material held the crack at bay, keeping the bowl whole. "Remember broke does not mean broken."

She ran her finger along the edge of the sealed break. Her eyes were wet but the tears did not fall.

"Broke, not broken."