You may wonder what happened to Anna and her boyfriend in our follow-up session.
Let me take you back to how we ended last week’s article. I said I wanted to see them again in a week, not just to check whether the escape had brought them closer, or had worn off and the old habits had crept back in, but because of how things had unfolded during those four days they were here.
I asked Anna and her boyfriend to take turns describing how things had unfolded during their short escape. It was essential to hear that part, and I will explain the reasoning behind this.
When two people feel a sense of disconnection, finding their way back to each other requires bringing to light the emotions they’ve buried—those tender feelings that once drew them together. That was my goal when I sent them off with specific instructions. I wasn’t just interested in the details of their trip; I was looking for something more profound.
I wanted to understand how they had interacted with the experience—what memories it stirred, and whether the adventure had rekindled something genuine between them. Did they treat the instructions like a playful checklist—“do this, then that”—or did they truly engage, allowing themselves to be present and attentive to the feelings that began to resurface during their time away?
What unfolded during that session revealed a deeper story—one neither of them had anticipated and one I couldn’t overlook. They began to open up one by one, sharing far more than I expected, though I had sensed it from the moment I first met Anna.
During our first session, when Anna came to see me alone, I asked her a few questions, and it quickly became apparent that she had difficulty expressing her emotions openly. She seemed to carry a sense of restraint, as if she felt compelled to keep everything under control—her surroundings, her partner, and even her feelings.
It was as if she were a quiet puppeteer, carefully pulling the strings of her life—orchestrating everything around her like a play she had written and directed herself. But when she arrived with her boyfriend, the contrast in their dynamics became unmistakably clear. He was more emotionally open and willing to talk about their issues honestly and with vulnerability.
What struck me most was how he consciously did not make Anna feel solely responsible for their distance, even while sharing brutal truths. That stood out—mainly because, during her solo session, she had painted a very different picture, subtly placing most of the blame on him.
Something else that struck me was how her initial excitement about the upcoming trip and the instructions I’d given seemed driven more by the idea of a change of scenery than by any deeper emotional connection. Her enthusiasm was rooted in anticipating doing something different rather than a genuine desire to engage with the experience.
When Anna first began describing the trip, I listened closely—not just to the words, but to how she carried them. She spoke precisely, recounting where they went, what they did, the weather, the meals, and the setting. It was all carefully narrated—almost rehearsed. But what stood out wasn’t what she said—it was what she didn’t.
There was no mention of how she felt being with him, what they had shared as a couple, how close they had come, or how he had been with her. No vulnerability. No warmth. Just a tidy summary of events, as if she were recounting someone else’s experience, not her own.
When it was his turn to speak, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. He spoke slowly, yet sincerely—his words flowing with ease, his tone gentle.
He walked me through their trip as someone who had truly lived it. He described how he felt watching the sunset, their walks in nature, the evenings on the patio drinking wine, and the warmth of sitting by the fire. He longed to connect more deeply, to hear her stories and feel part of her inner world—but she couldn’t let him in. She held back even when he tried to reach her with tenderness during intimacy.
At that moment, I had begun to understand something about him. He had learned to step back over time in this relationship, not because he loved her less, but because he wanted to keep the peace, to make her feel comfortable. In the process, he had slowly retreated into himself. Living with Anna had taught him, subtly and over time, that certain parts of him—his sensitivity, spontaneity, and joy—weren’t always welcome.
He had come to understand that his openness, the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, threatened her. It made her feel somehow “less than” him.
I realised something important: the trip I had suggested might offer them a brief connection, yes, but it wouldn’t be enough to bring them closer unless something deeper were addressed.
As he continued speaking, another layer emerged—something softer, sadder. It was as if he were trying to convince himself that they had shared the same experience. And not just this time, but every time they had been together.
They genuinely needed the help of a psychologist, and if so, who needed it more? Or perhaps, they were simply two people who were never meant to be together.
Despite everything, I couldn’t ignore that they still loved each other. That gave me hope. Perhaps, with the help of a psychologist and my continued guidance, they could find a way through, as I had seen before. Not every story ends happily, but some do. And sometimes, even a few wins are better than none.
The next chapter of their story started to take shape— one built not on perfection, but on intention, belief, and heart.
This element is something I’ll be revealing in my book.
photo Image license by freepik.com
