The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 23: Would You Miss Them?
We weren’t in the waiting area long before Dr. Shelby emerged, offering a warm smile as he invited us into his office. His practice was located in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, and he operated out of a converted portion of his home. The separate entrance led us into what looked like a tastefully renovated in-law suite or private apartment—spacious, quiet, and clearly designed with care.
Inside, the office was unexpectedly refined. Soft lighting cast a gentle glow across the room, illuminating the walls lined with bookshelves and minimalist artwork. A large window offered a view of a peaceful garden outside, the greenery lending the space an air of calm professionalism. We were led to a leather couch—deep, soft, and slightly too plush for sitting upright with ease.
Dr. Shelby took a seat across from us in a sleek, modern armchair. He glanced at the folder in his hands, flipping it open briefly before setting it aside on a round glass table beside him.
His attention turned to Isla, who was perched rather stiffly on the couch. She tried to settle in, but the soft cushions made it difficult—particularly with her wrists cuffed to her waist. The restraints didn’t allow much movement, and though she wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, the awkward posture reflected more than just her physical limitations. The tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided his gaze—these said as much about the nature of today’s meeting as the cuffs themselves.
The doctor cleared his throat, realizing he’d been staring at the restraints longer than he intended. He shifted slightly in his chair, adopting a more composed expression.
“I’m sorry about the couch,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “It’s a bit too soft for ... well, it’s not really designed for posture, let’s say. I keep meaning to replace it with something a bit more ... structured.”
His eyes flicked once more to Isla’s bound hands, then back to her face, careful not to linger. “If you’d prefer a firmer seat, I can get you a chair.”
It was a graceful way of acknowledging her discomfort without directly naming the restraints. Professional, but human. His tone remained warm, measured. Compassionate, even—without tipping into pity.
Isla gave a small shake of her head, lips pressing into something like a smile. She was clearly trying to maintain composure, even if the cuffs and couch were conspiring against her.
“So, Ms. Kumar,” he said, his voice calm and measured, “I know this isn’t ... typical. And not easy for you. But I appreciate you working with me. It’ll help make today go smoother.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” Isla said, her tone even but not unkind. “Jeffrey said I needed to meet with you—that your report could help with tomorrow.”
Dr. Shelby nodded, not defensively but with quiet acceptance. “Fair enough.”
He looked to be in his early fifties, his hair graying at the temples, his presence calm but deliberate. There was a stillness to the way he spoke, the kind that only comes from years of listening to people at their most vulnerable.
“Jeffrey’s given me the legal background,” he continued, flipping open a small leatherbound notebook that rested on his knee. “I understand this isn’t a criminal referral. You haven’t been charged with anything. You’re not under arrest. But, given how you’re currently classified by the Department of Corrections—as a high-risk escapee—certain protocols are in place.”
He gestured subtly toward the restraints. Not dramatically—just a small, open-handed movement to acknowledge the obvious without making it a spectacle.
Isla’s lips curled again, into a faint, knowing smile. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Dr. Shelby returned the smile, then straightened slightly in his chair. “I’m here today to assess your mental and emotional state. Specifically, to determine whether you pose any risk—to yourself or others.”
Then his gaze shifted to me—his expression warm, but clinical.
“Now, normally I conduct these assessments one-on-one. But after reviewing Jeffrey’s notes and speaking with him briefly, I agreed this situation warrants a bit of flexibility. He indicated that your partner”—he nodded toward me—”has been closely involved throughout, both emotionally and practically. And that your interactions together could provide insight into your current mental state.”
He offered a polite smile, the kind that was more about reassurance than friendliness. “So, with your consent,” he said, glancing back to Isla, “I’d like Mr. Westfield to remain.”
Isla nodded almost immediately, not even looking at me, just trusting I was where I needed to be.
“I want him here,” she said simply. She then added, “Just call us Isla and Noah, please.”
“Okay,” he replied. He then uncapped the pen clipped to his notebook, his expression steady. “How have you been feeling?”
Isla hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.”
Her voice was low, uncertain—not guarded, exactly, but cautious. “I feel a lot of things ... but it’s all kind of jumbled together.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away again. Then she swallowed and let out a slow, shaky breath.
“Sometimes I feel okay. Like I can handle it. Other times, it feels ... like it might be too much.”
Dr. Shelby gave a small, thoughtful nod. “When you say ‘it,’ are you referring to the restraints?”
Isla nodded once, silently.
“That’s a completely valid response,” he said gently. “What you’re dealing with isn’t easy.”
He then leaned forward slightly, his tone steady and reassuring. “You’re processing a lot right now—understandably so. The restraints aren’t just physical; they carry a psychological weight, and that’s going to affect how you feel.”
He paused for a moment, giving Isla time to breathe before continuing. His voice remained calm and steady.
“When it feels like it might be too much ... what is that like for you? Physically? Emotionally? Could you describe it?”
He let the question hang, then added gently, “Is it more like panic? Numbness? Anger?”
Isla stayed still for a long moment, blinking slowly—like she was trying to locate the words inside the blur of her own reactions. The cuffs clinked softly inside the lockbox as she adjusted her hands. Not struggling, just ... moving. Like someone used to the feel of metal against skin. Familiar, but never truly comfortable.
She exhaled—not quite a sigh, but something close.
“It’s complicated,” she said at last. Her voice was low, not fragile, but tightly controlled.
“When I feel that way ... it’s not panic. I’m not the panicky type. But it’s not fear, either—not from being in the cuffs, anyway. It’s more like this rush of conflicting signals. Part of me feels safe, even comforted, being restrained. Especially when I’m with Noah. Because when I’m cuffed, I don’t have to decide anything. I don’t have to be strong, or in control. I can just ... be.”
Her eyes dropped, now fixed on the connecting chain that ran down the front of her dress and disappeared between her knees.
“But then it turns on me. That same stillness that felt comforting starts to feel like a trap. My heart races. My body tenses. I start fidgeting, even though I know I can’t get out.”
She swallowed hard.
“And the worst part is ... I don’t even care about getting out. I’m okay like this. Like I said, I feel safe—when I’m with Noah. But even so ... I still want it to stop.”
Dr. Shelby gave a gentle, understanding smile. “It’s okay to feel conflicted. It sounds like the restraints offer you a sense of safety by limiting your choices, but at the same time, they also make you feel trapped and anxious. You mentioned that you don’t care about getting out, and yet you still want it to stop. Could you help me understand that better?”
Isla’s eyes stayed on the chain running down from the lockbox, her voice soft and careful, like she was still deciding how much of herself to share.
“When I’m restrained ... it feels like everything quiets down. I don’t have to make decisions, or figure out how I’m supposed to act. There’s this sense of relief...”
She paused, her breath catching slightly as her fingers shifted against the cuffs.
“But then something shifts. My body starts pushing back, even if my mind is still holding on. It’s like I need the stillness—but at the same time, I hate it. I feel trapped, even when I tell myself it’s helping and that I’m okay with it.”
She looked up for a moment, eyes flicking toward the doctor before dropping again.
“I don’t know how else to explain that—how I can want both things at once,” Isla said softly. “It’s like ... the only time I feel okay is when I’m not in control. And then I hate myself for it.”
She looked up briefly, her eyes flicking toward Dr. Shelby before dropping again. The cuffs resting against her waist made a faint sound as she shifted.
Dr. Shelby nodded slowly, his voice calm and unrushed as he looked at me. “Does that summarize how Isla has been? Since she’s been in those?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied. “Sometimes she’s fine, and other times she isn’t. Sometimes she’s okay wearing them and isn’t in any rush to have them taken off, even after we get home. Other times, she wants them off the moment we walk through the door.”
The doctor nodded again. “Okay,” he said to me. “Thank you.” Then he turned back to Isla.
“What you’re describing, and what Noah has corroborated—the tension between wanting out and needing the safety of restraint—that’s not unusual for people who’ve been carrying a lot for a long time,” he said. “That push-pull feeling ... it can be part of a deeper pattern. Often, it shows up in people who’ve lived with chronic anxiety, or who’ve learned to survive by giving up control.”
He paused, thoughtful but still warm in tone.
“Feeling comfort in restraint, while also feeling trapped by it, can be a trauma-rooted response. It’s tied to identity, safety ... sometimes even to submission. When life feels chaotic or overwhelming, control—not having it—can start to feel like the only place where things make sense.”
Isla’s fingers curled slightly against the cuffs, but she didn’t speak.
“There may also be signs of dissociation,” Dr. Shelby added gently. “You seem to be carrying a lot of self-doubt. Maybe shame. Sometimes, when someone’s self-worth has been shaped by how others see them—or how they think others want them to be—it can create a kind of fracture in the self.”
He leaned in slightly, not pressing, just present.
“Does that resonate with you?”
Isla nodded but didn’t speak right away.
Dr. Shelby’s voice was gentle, probing without pressure. “Do you feel your sense of worth is tied to how the people closest to you see you?”
She nodded again. “My parents never approved of me going into acting. They thought it was a waste. They wanted me to marry a nice Indian man—not an arranged marriage, but someone they would approve of.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And their disapproval—did it make you feel less than, or like you weren’t enough?”
Isla’s nod was slow but definite.
“What about Noah?” The doctor looked at me briefly. “He seems supportive. He’s here with you now. Jeffrey mentioned he seems attentive. That he thinks he’s there for you.”
“Noah’s been there for me. I feel safe with him.” She swallowed hard, her eyes dropping to the cuffs binding her wrists at her waist. After a brief pause, she whispered, “With these restraints ... I’m completely helpless. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
The doctor caught the hesitation and glanced at me before turning back to Isla. “You hesitated.”
She didn’t respond immediately, seeming to weigh how much to say.
“We’ve learned a lot about each other through this,” she finally said, lightly tugging at the restraints.
“Can you help me understand?” the doctor asked. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s complicated,” Isla said quietly, taking a breath.
Then, slowly and with quiet honesty, she began to explain. She told Dr. Shelby how she’d come to understand that I was drawn to a certain kind of femininity—composed, obedient, dressed-up in skirts and heels. Not just the look, but the feeling it created. One of soft submission, that comprised a posture of control through surrender. She explained how, at first, it hurt—how she mistook my gaze at other women as rejection, until she realized it wasn’t them I wanted, but something in how they carried themselves. The way they dressed. The way they yielded.
She talked about how the restraints had started to serve a double purpose. How dressing the way I liked, being bound, made her feel seen. Desired. That even if it wasn’t the kind of attention she thought she needed, or even wanted, it filled something raw in her—the need to be looked at like she was loved. And even though it was complicated and often painful, she clung to it, because in those moments, she felt like she was enough.
Dr. Shelby sat quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable but kind. He wasn’t rushing to respond. Instead, he gave Isla the space to finish, to breathe. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.
“Thank you for telling me that,” he said. “It takes a lot of courage to say something so vulnerable out loud.”
He then turned to me, his expression thoughtful but neutral—not accusatory, not indulgent. Just quietly focused.
“Noah,” he said, “can I ask you something?”
He gave me a moment to nod before continuing, his voice calm and professional, but layered with care.
“When Isla says that the restraints, the dressing-up, the yielding—when she says those things make her feel seen by you ... how does that sit with you?”
He paused only briefly before adding, “Do you recognize that dynamic? And if so ... is it something you actively encouraged, even unintentionally?”
There was no edge to his tone, but the question was real—anchored in clinical curiosity, maybe even concern.
Then, gently, he continued. “I’m not asking if you meant to make her feel obligated. But I am asking if you’ve noticed that, in order to feel loved or enough, she’s started to shape herself around what she believes you desire. Is that something you’re aware of?”
He didn’t look like he was fishing for guilt. He looked like someone trying to understand both of us.
“And how does it feel, knowing that some of the ways Isla expresses vulnerability—restraint, surrender, control through submission—are not just things that resonate with you, but may also stem from pain she hasn’t fully unpacked yet?”
He leaned back a little, letting you sit with that—not demanding answers, but leaving space for honest reflection.
I sat forward slightly, hands clasped between my knees.
“Yeah, I see it. I didn’t always, but I do now.”
My voice was quiet, but steady. I wasn’t trying to defend myself. I just wanted to be honest.
“I’ve always known I was drawn to that kind of look. The dressing up. And what it represents—something simple, maybe even old-fashioned. Feminine clothes, that sense of softness or surrender they can give off.”
I glanced at Isla, then back at Dr. Shelby.
“But I never forced it on her. I’ve never asked her to wear heels or stockings. But I guess ... when I stared at other women who did, I didn’t realize Isla saw that. And I didn’t know it made her feel like she wasn’t enough.”
I let that hang for a moment.
“She called me out on it. That’s when I told her it wasn’t the women I was looking at—it was how they were dressed. The way it made me feel.”
I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I wanted to make sure what I was about to say came out just right.
“I love her. Not the image. Not the heels or the quiet posture. I love her. I just didn’t see, until the past few days, how much my preferences—my staring, my silence—were hurting her.”
Dr. Shelby looked at me for a moment, his expression calm but focused. He didn’t jump in quickly—he let the quiet do some of the work first.
Then he spoke, gently.
“Thank you for being honest. That kind of reflection—it’s not easy. Especially when it touches on how we’ve unintentionally hurt the people we love.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, his voice still even, but softer now.
“We all bring our preferences and our past into relationships. That’s natural. What matters is what we do when we realize those preferences are colliding with someone else’s pain.”
He looked between the two of us before turning his attention fully to Isla.
“Isla, I want to come back to you now ... because what you shared earlier—that tension between feeling safe and feeling trapped, between being seen and being shaped—that’s incredibly important.”
He gave her a moment, then continued, his tone warm and steady.
“What you’re feeling is real. And it makes perfect sense.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, pen idle in his hand.
“What you’re describing ... it makes sense. Not just in a clinical way, but emotionally. When someone has lived with chronic invalidation or unmet emotional needs, it’s common for their sense of worth to become tangled up in how others see them. So, if being looked at, desired, even needed, makes you feel real or valuable ... that’s not strange. That’s human.”
He paused, eyes flicking briefly to the cuffs at her waist, then back to her face.
“But the part I’m paying close attention to,” Dr. Shelby said gently, “is the conflict—the tension between comfort and distress. Between wanting to be desired this way ... and resenting yourself for needing it.”
He let the moment settle before continuing, his voice calm and inviting.
“How has that impacted you?” he asked softly. “Is that part of why you’re dressed the way you are now?”
Isla gave a small nod. “Yeah. I want him to look at me like he loves me.”
Dr. Shelby leaned forward slightly, his tone still even. “So, you feel most loved when you’re performing a version of yourself? When you change how you look ... or how you submit?”
She shook her head quickly. “He does love me,” she said, her voice firm, almost defensive. Then she exhaled. “It’s just ... when I’m dressed like this, and in these—” she glanced down, gesturing toward her clothes and the restraints around her waist, “—I guess I see it more. In his eyes.”
Dr. Shelby nodded thoughtfully. “You mean, you see the love more clearly when you’re restrained?”
Isla hesitated, then nodded again. Quiet, but honest.
Dr. Shelby let the silence settle a moment, then continued, his voice steady but warm.
“What you’re describing adds an important layer,” he said, his tone reflective. “You’re not just finding comfort in submission for your own sake—you’re also trying to meet someone else’s desire. You’re shaping yourself around what you believe Noah wants from you.”
Isla didn’t move, but her eyes were still on her lap. She didn’t argue.
“That’s not inherently unhealthy,” he went on, gently. “Relationships involve compromise, attunement, even devotion. But when self-worth becomes tied to being seen a certain way—when love feels conditional on maintaining a role, or a performance—it can deepen those fractures I mentioned earlier.”
He glanced at the cuffs, then back at Isla. “You said earlier that you see his love more clearly when you’re restrained. That suggests the restraints have taken on a symbolic weight. They’re not just security measures anymore—they’ve become part of how you seek connection. How you prove your worth.”
Dr. Shelby paused, letting that settle before adding, “And that tells me your need for control—or rather, your surrender of it—isn’t just about calming chaos anymore. It’s also about love. About being enough. About being chosen. And that makes it even harder to separate what’s truly helping you ... from what might be hurting you.”
Dr. Shelby leaned back slightly, giving Isla space to process. His tone stayed calm, nonjudgmental—measured in a way that made the words feel safe to hear.