Who would study psychology unless they had some issues?!

He placed both hands on the table, looking at his palms as if confirming whether something was still there.

"So tell me," the naturally sociable senior suddenly started, "among these patients, how many can we actually encounter in the Psychological Consultation room?"

Nan Zhubin set down his cup, contemplating.

"Most of them can’t be handled by Psychological Consultation." Nan Zhubin said, "Even for the few who can be intervened with—like that girl in the sailor uniform, and the one who carries a blade—they’re the mildest cases, but even then, medication takes precedence, with Psychological Consultation as a supplement."

The sociable senior paused for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"Right," he said, "the consulting techniques we learned have very limited effectiveness with these patients."

While saying this, a collapsing sense of realization showed on the sociable senior’s face.

Clearly, even before reaching the personal limits of one’s ability, one has already seen the limits of industry development; this feeling is quite indescribable.

Nan Zhubin did not judge whether his conclusion was correct, merely took another sip from his cup.

At this moment, the kitchen curtain was lifted, and the owner carried out two trays, placing two servings of fish-flavored shredded pork over rice on the table.

The sauce on the fish-flavored shredded pork was richly thick, glistening over the rice, giving off a mouth-watering sheen. The owner also added two extra bowls of seaweed egg drop soup; the rim of the soup bowl was chipped, but the aroma seemed appetizing.

The sociable senior picked up his chopsticks, mixed the dish a couple of times, and suddenly chuckled.

"Speaking of which," his smile had a hint of embarrassment, "When Doctor Wen called you ’Director Nan’ this morning, I was taken aback for a moment. Later, I found out that you weren’t here for an internship, but was invited as a resident consultant."

Nan Zhubin chuckled lightly.

"I was thinking at the time," the sociable senior continued, his tone filled with a playful sense of realization, "I’m a year ahead of you, yet here you are considered a teacher, while I’m still a student."

He leaned forward, reverting to his sociable demeanor from the morning: "Can I audit your consultations later on?"

This is a rare opportunity for a novice consultant.

"It seems the hospital doesn’t allow it," Nan Zhubin said, "You can only audit the psychological therapy conducted by teaching consultants. I don’t have the industry qualifications."

This was the truth, the sociable senior sagged for a moment, then quickly became excited again: "How long have you been accumulating consulting hours? Which school of thought? How were you invited by the hospital? Which mentor are you working with now?"

A string of questions shot out like rapid-fire arrows.

Nan Zhubin’s lips twitched slightly, contemplating: "I’m currently working with Teacher Bai Qinghua..."

"Teacher Bai Qinghua?!" The sociable senior exclaimed before Nan Zhubin could finish.

"Wait, you, Nan, Nan Zhubin..."

Afterward, as if he suddenly remembered something, his expression shifted from surprise to calm, as if overwhelmed and then rebooted.

...

After Nan Zhubin had finished half of the covered rice dish, the sociable senior seemed to have finally rebooted.

He glanced at Nan Zhubin, saying nothing more.

But after taking a couple more bites, he couldn’t help but sigh again.

"That boy with the [impulse disorder]," his voice softened, "his mom really has it tough. Even though she’s on medication, it seems she still wants what’s best for her child, but just can’t find the direction."

"Moreover, her own state seems off, eventually Director He even asked if she wanted Psychological Consultation."

The sociable senior asked: "If it were you, how would you intervene with this mother?"

Nan Zhubin did not answer this hypothetical question.

"There’s insufficient information; you’d need to have a deep conversation to determine."

Very conservative, but very reasonable.

Seeing this, the sociable senior ceased his inquiries, and the two began eating quietly. The ceiling fan in the store hummed as it rotated, bringing a warm breeze.

At this moment, three people arrived at the next table.

A man, a woman, and an eight or nine-year-old girl.

The three sat at the neighboring table. The man picked up the menu and flipped through two pages before handing it to the woman: "Take a look, decide what you want to eat."

The woman took the menu but hadn’t yet had a chance to look before the little girl spoke up: "Daddy, I want to eat cotton candy."

The man frowned immediately: "Why are you thinking about cotton candy when you’re about to eat?"

The little girl’s lip quivered, she lowered her head, placing both hands beneath the table, starting to pick at her fingers.

Having chosen their meal, the woman handed the menu to the owner, then turned to the girl: "Sweetie, don’t pick at your fingers, what if you tear them open?"

The little girl didn’t lift her head, her fingers continued to fidget.

Her mother tried coaxing her a little longer, but it was futile.

The man suddenly leaned forward, and his voice had a forced gentleness that was rather rigid: "Sweetie, when Dad and Mom make a promise, we follow through, can you also say what you mean? Didn’t you promise Dad and Mom before not to pick at your fingers anymore?"

The little girl’s fingers paused for a moment, but only for a second, before resuming.

"You didn’t, didn’t follow through." She abruptly lifted her head, her voice filled with grievance, "Last time you promised if I got a perfect score you’d take me to the amusement park, but you didn’t."

The man’s expression stiffened, and most of the gentleness in his voice faded: "Now you’ve learned to talk back, huh? Isn’t getting a perfect score expected?"

The woman beside him gently tugged at the man’s sleeve.

Seeing this, the man’s voice softened again, seemingly trying to show patience: "Can you tell Daddy why you pick at your fingers?"

The little girl remained silent for two seconds.

"Boredom," she replied.

The man’s expression stiffened again, this time for an even longer duration.

"We’ve all come out to play," his voice carried a tone of disbelief, "how can you still be bored?"

"I want to eat cotton candy," she replied.

The man was about to say something but was stopped by the woman. She patiently lowered her head to address her daughter: "Cotton candy is the least healthy thing. And yesterday, when we didn’t get you cotton candy, didn’t we turn around and buy you sugar-coated haws?"

The little girl’s voice grew louder: "But I don’t want sugar-coated haws, I want cotton candy."

The man’s expression darkened: "You little—"

...

Unsurprisingly, what followed were sounds of scolding and the child’s crying.

Nan Zhubin and the sociable senior ate in silence, although compared to earlier, the argument seemed to be a side dish to the meal.

Only, neither of them particularly enjoyed this side dish.

The sociable senior lowered his voice to say: "There’s an expression—’In families, the child is often the last to go mad.’"

Nan Zhubin did not reply.

The sociable senior continued: "Look at that dad, using his logic to justify his actions; while the little girl, every genuine feeling she expresses is negated."

He shook his head, sighing: "Parents now say children are ignorant, think her picking at fingers is a bad habit, talking back is disobedient. But in a few years? When this child grows up, doesn’t pick her fingers anymore, doesn’t talk back, and doesn’t say anything at all, then..."

The sociable senior seemed to want to say more but ultimately didn’t, just shook his head.

Nan Zhubin took a sip of the seaweed egg drop soup; it had already cooled.

"What a pity." The sociable senior muttered.

Buzz—Buzz—

Nan Zhubin’s phone suddenly vibrated.

"Hello, is this Teacher Nan?"

The voice was unfamiliar and female, quick-paced.

"Yes, it’s me."

"This is Jingwei Consultation Appointment Room, my surname is Sun, I will be responsible for liaising with you from now on."

"Teacher Nan, are you available around three this afternoon? Can you take a consultation?"

The phone voice wasn’t loud, but was enough for those nearby to catch the gist.

The sociable senior showed an envious expression.

Nan Zhubin nodded: "I can."