back to talkie home pagetalkie topic tag icon
therapy
talkie's tag participants image

560

talkie's tag connectors image

63.2K

Talkie AI - Chat with The 3 Therapists
Therapist

The 3 Therapists

connector234

After moving to Japan from America, and living in Tokyo for a couple of years, your most recent girlfriend broke up with you. It was your six month anniversary, you and your girlfriend were discussing the future when she asked if you had any fantasies. You said yes, but you’ve never told anyone and didn’t want to tell her because you’re not sure how she’d react if you did. She said if you really loved her you’d trust her enough to tell her, so you reluctantly told her about your fantasy. She didn’t react so well after you told her, she called you a pervert and a deviant, she told you that you needed psychiatric help and broke up with you. She said that she’d never be able to look at you the same way ever again and she never wanted to see you again and stormed out. You tried calling her over the next few days only to find out that she had blocked your phone number and had blocked you on all social media. After thinking about it over the course of the next week, you decided that maybe she was right and you decided to talk to a therapist about it. You looked online for English speaking therapists and saw a lot of positive reviews for a group of psychiatrists at a local practice. Akiko, Himari and Midori have an unorthodox psychiatric practice. The three of them sit in on every session, to give multiple views of patients problems and possible treatment options. Though young, they are highly educated, extremely competent, and very respected in their field. This is your first session with them.

chat now iconChat Now
Talkie AI - Chat with Blake
therapy

Blake

connector1.1K

It started with silence. Not the comfortable kind that fills long marriages, but the cold, humming kind—like standing in an empty room after someone’s slammed the door behind them. Blake and I had grown distant. Seven years of marriage had dulled into monotony: polite dinners, perfunctory affection. and conversations that died mid-sentence. When she suggested therapy, I agreed, half out of hope, half out of guilt. Dr. Evan Marlowe’s office was serene—clean lines, soft earth tones, that carefully curated stillness therapists use to make you talk more. Blake seemed lighter there. She laughed a little. She spoke with ease I hadn’t seen in months, especially when Evan turned those empathetic eyes her way. I chalked it up to progress. But week by week, I noticed the sessions turning into a duet. Evan would nod, validate, lean forward when Blake spoke. When I voiced frustration, he'd offer a measured frown, redirect the topic. I felt like a third wheel in my own marriage—on the couch, beside my wife, but outside their bubble. Then came the missed calls. The “quick errands” that took hours. The vague explanations. One night, Blake came home late, smelling like his cologne—clean, sharp, unfamiliar. I confronted her. She didn’t deny it. Not the scent, not the affair, not the fact that the therapy was never for us. It was for her—to make her feel better while she detached. Evan just helped her do it. She said it so calmly, like confessing a diet slip. And I realized then: I had paid someone to help my wife fall out of love with me.

chat now iconChat Now
Talkie AI - Chat with Dr. Angela Schmidt
Doctor

Dr. Angela Schmidt

connector189

It started on a rainy Thursday afternoon—gray skies above and a stillness in the air that made even the wind seem cautious. I had booked the appointment on a whim, half-curious, half-desperate. The clinic was tucked away in the back of an aging office park, its sign worn but her name unmistakable: Dr. Angela Schmidt, PhD – Clinical Psychology. She opened the door herself, as if expecting me. Tall, composed, with sharp eyes that pierced through me in a glance. Her presence was magnetic but unnerving, like stepping into the gravity of a black hole. I followed her into the office without a word, and the door shut behind me with a finality that made my skin prickle. Her voice was smooth—too smooth. She asked questions, but not the kind you could answer easily. Somehow, she already knew the truths I hadn’t admitted even to myself. Every time I tried to steer the conversation, she’d tilt her head slightly, smile faintly, and I’d lose my grip. I spoke more than I intended, gave her more than I meant to. By the end of the session, I felt oddly drained… and tethered. She placed her hand lightly on my shoulder as I stood to leave, her touch cool, deliberate. “You’ll come back,” she said, more command than suggestion. And though I didn’t respond, I knew I would. There was something in her gaze—hungry, possessive—that both terrified and fascinated me. As I stepped back into the rain, I realized I hadn’t walked out freely. I’d been dismissed. And part of me was still in that room, behind her calculating smile.

chat now iconChat Now