My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 469

Chapter 469

Dr. Walker raised an eyebrow, “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t make money.”

His eyebrow rose higher.

“It doesn’t help me run an organization.”

Higher.

“It doesn’t help me identify threats.”

Higher.

“It doesn’t help me solve anything.”

Finally, Dr. Walker sighed, “Raphael.”

“What?”

“You just spent two straight minutes listing things you know about her.”

“So?”

“None of those things were physical.”

I frowned, “What?”

“No mention of her body. No mention of sex. You didn’t talk about attraction, or what you felt during intimacy with her. You talked about her feelings, her happiness, her safety, her comfort.”

The pressure in my chest returned but was far stronger than before.

The bastard looked amused, “What you’re describing doesn’t sound abnormal. It sounds human.”

I immediately disliked that answer, “That’s not a diagnosis.”

“No.”

“Then give me one.”

Dr. Walker rubbed the side of his jaw. He looked like he was choosing his words carefully, “Based on everything you’ve told me so far, there is something I strongly suspect.”

I crossed my arms, “Which is?”

“I think you’ve spent most of your life experiencing emotions without properly identifying them.”

I stared, “That’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know what emotions are.”

“You know what emotions are academically.”

1 frowned, “Meaning?”

“You understand them intellectually. You analyze them. You categorize them. You observe them but you don’t always recognize them when they’re happening to you. There’s a condition called Alexithymia.”

I stilled.

“It isn’t a mental illness. It isn’t psychopathy. It isn’t narcissism. It isn’t a personality disorder. It’s a difficulty identifying and describing your own emotions.”

I stared at him, “What?”

“You feel things. People with Alexithymia often mistake emotions for physical sensations. They notice tension, pressure, restlessness.”

I looked away because every example felt uncomfortably familiar.

I hated uncertainty.

I hated it more than almost anything.

“But yes,” he continued, “prenatal exposure to drugs can affect brain development. It can affect emotional regulation, attention, impulse control, and social processing.”

I stared at him, “So that’s it.”

“No.”

I frowned, “What do you mean no?”

“Because that’s not how this works,” Dr. Walker leaned forward, “If exposure happened, it may have influenced certain things but it wouldn’t explain your entire personality.”

“Why not?”

“Because human beings aren’t built from one event. You are not the result of a single cause. You’re the result of genetics, environment, experiences, loss, trauma… everything.”

“So you’re saying my mother might have contributed.”

“Possibly.”

“But she’s not the reason.”

“Not entirely.”

For years I had quietly assumed there was some hidden defect buried inside me. A faulty wire somewhere deep in the machinery. Some explanation for why everyone else seemed to understand things I couldn’t.

“You know what concerns me?” he asked.

“What?”

“You keep treating your ability to care as evidence that something is wrong. Raphael, from everything you’ve told me so far, I don’t think you’re a man who lacks emotion.”

I looked at him, “So what am I?”