I've never been a fan of small rooms. Since childhood, being the youngest, I was always handed the smallest room. I have no idea why, I mean I've always collected more stuff than my sister, even my parents. Books, manga, video games. Soon enough my old bookshelf started to bend under the weight of my frivolous spending and after shave christmas presents. Whenever my family moved, this 'small bedroom syndrome' always followed. It was quite annoying at first, I'm not a fan of stuffing things I've bought under my bed, or boxing them up and chucking them into the bottom of my wardrobe. What's the point of owning something if you can't see it? It's counter-intuitive.

Anyway, small rooms, they seemed to be part of me soon enough. My friends would call it ironic, which I suppose it was from a physical standpoint. Being six-foot-four didn't bode well with cramped spaces, be it the fact that my feet always pushed their way to the bottom of the bed, prodding the small shelving unit I had just in front of them, or the fact that no matter the room, the door frame was always just that amount of small that I always had to duck, or be subject to permanent brain damage.

Small rooms are for small people, who have a grasp on the difference between 'I want' and 'I need', so their bookshelves aren't bending with all the crap they've collected. Who don't have to bend down when entering their bedroom, and who can sleep soundly without imagining some sort of creature wanting a midnight snack.

Small rooms are not for me.

So the irony of having these counseling sessions in such a cramped space was almost bloody palpable. I chose to have them of course. Get yourself some 'different from peers', add a dash of 'insecurity', and just a smidge of 'believing reality is against you', and well done, you've baked yourself a piping hot loaf of mental health problems, and it seems I am a damn good baker.

It wasn't Mr.Pearson's fault, my counselor. In fact he's quite a lovely guy. I mean I guess you have to be in this sort of profession, can't exactly have a criminal record or narcissism. He's always well-spoken, soft with his words, but they still hit you when they need to. When warranted, he does this charade-like act with his hands to help emphasize his point, and although it helps, I've always found it funny. I suppose, just like always, it's that universal bad luck that landed me here.

Or you know, coincidence. But when has anything just been a coincidence? They said JFK's death was just a sad coincidence. I doubt that.

The room itself is, well not a looker. The walls have this beige paint splattered all over, I can tell since there are small little bumps in the paint. Air bubbles. The carpet is that company blue you always find inside offices or schools, that cheap stuff which frizzes at the top. I've always hated that, like split ends, as if the carpet just needs a good conditioner, or a haircut. Small windows, a small desk, accompanied with two small chairs for us both to sit in. As if the universe decided to slip me the biggest of middle fingers on a cosmic scale.

By this point, as I sat thinking about the reality-shattering 'fuck you' the universe handed me, I had missed a question which Mr.Pearson had asked me. His eyes sat in that way, when someone asks a question and waits for a response, a face which I have come to be accustomed to.

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"Hm?" I turn to him and voice towards him.

"Did you have any trouble collecting your prescription Arthur?"

"Oh, um no" I responded, tapping my coat pocket with my hand, "one hundred milligrams of the good stuff right here"

He smiles, giving a warm chuckle as he does. I think if everyone was like Mr.Pearson, there would probably be no more conflict. Then again, I doubt he's into manga, and if everyone turned into a Pearson, everyone online wouldn't know what I was talking about. I suppose that's selfish thinking.

The appointment followed the usual pattern. 'How are you?', 'How are things?' and so on. I try to give my honest feelings, no point being here otherwise, but I couldn't look him in the eye as I did. I don't know, it's like, if I do, then he's seen the words, like it's all real. Which Imean, it is, but more real. A 'real' that sits above regular 'real'. I know it makes no sense, but it does at that moment.

Then, near the end, as I stared at the foundations of the tiny room, Mr.Pearson noticed.

"Still not a fan of small rooms I see?"

I turned again to face him. Not directly. I learnt that tactic where if you look just above someone's head, it still looks like you're giving eye contact. Thank you, YouTube.

"You could say that, yeah."

He did that counselor thing. A nod and exhale before crossing his leg over the other, cupping his hands over his raised knee. The "its time to talk serious" move. I hate that move.

"I never took you as claustrophobic Arthur."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you hold such a grudge against them?"

I went to open my mouth to say something, but I decided against it. I mean, I'm not insane, I know how it sounds, but saying 'oh I hate them because its the universe fucking with me' would probably land me in some sort of institution.

"Oh I just, yknow, doesn't give you a lot of storage options does it?"

He smiled and nodded, letting the squashed silence ruminate for a few seconds.

"You know Arthur," he leant in, that counselor lean, I hate that lean, "in some cases, people who don't like small spaces normally correlate with a 'full' body of emotions."

That, I didn't expect. I mean, I know this stuff is metaphors and shit, but that? No, I just don't like them. Sure, my belief in bad luck is a bit...strange, but it has nothing to do with my 'emotions'. I'm fine. Well, I'm ok. The meds help. Talking helps. This kind of talking though, no, it doesn't help.

I was just about to voice my opinion when Mr.Pearson's watch went off.

"And I'm afraid that's us."

He stood up, and opened the door. An inward opening door. No correlation, just strange that it only opened inward.

"Same time next week?"

I blink. Great, now it was stuck with me, that statement is going to stalk me like a crazed serial killer. Awesome.

"Yeah, thanks."

I got up and headed to the door, now stuck in a thinking loop revolving around that statement, not seeing the incoming door frame, which hit just the top of my forehead. I winced, but managed to say 'I'm good' to Mr.Pearson before he unleashed his worry on me. I smiled, and left.

Thanks for that, universe.

I hate small rooms.