***
Dr. Lydia Bergstrom's office is designed to be soothing. Soft gray walls, comfortable furniture, a small fountain trickling in the corner. Everything carefully calibrated to encourage openness, vulnerability, trust.
I sit in the armchair across from her, my hands clasped in my lap so tightly my knuckles are white, and try to find the words.
"Take your time," Dr. Bergstrom says gently. She's in her forties, with kind eyes and a patient demeanor. Lucy recommended her, said she was a miracle worker.
But how do I explain this? How do I articulate the fear and fascination, the terror and the strange, dark curiosity that's taken root in my chest?
How do I admit that I'm falling apart?
"I've been... experiencing some unusual events," I begin. My voice sounds thin, uncertain. "Someone is watching me. Following me. Leaving me... gifts."
"That must be very frightening."
"It is." I swallow hard against the tears threatening to spill. "But it's also... I don't know how to explain it. Heknows things about me. Personal things. Things I've never told anyone."
Things that make me feel seen in ways that both terrify and comfort me.
"He?"
"I assume it's a man." I look down at my hands, unable to meet her eyes. "The gifts, the attention, the way he moves through my life like a ghost. It feels masculine. Possessive."
Dr. Bergstrom writes something in her notebook. "Have you contacted the police?"
The question hangs in the air. Have I? No. And I can't fully explain why, even to myself.
"I hired a private investigator," I say instead. "Today, actually."
"That's a good step. Proactive. But Eve, I sense there's something you're not saying. Something that's making this particularly difficult for you."
She's right, of course. There's a part of me—small, reckless, desperately lonely—that wants to know who he is. That's intrigued by the attention, however twisted. That feels seen.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
But I can't say that. Can't admit that a part of me is fascinated by my own stalker. Can't confess that when I think of the stranger at the masked ball, my body responds with want instead of fear.
What does that make me?
The silence stretches. Dr. Bergstrom waits patiently, giving me space to speak.
But the words won't come. They're stuck in my throat, tangled with shame and confusion and a dark curiosity I can't name.
"I'm sorry," I finally say, my voice breaking. "I thought I could do this, but I can't. Not yet."
Dr. Bergstrom's expression doesn't change; stays kind and understanding. "There's no pressure, Eve. Therapy moves at your pace. Would you like to schedule another appointment? Sometimes it's easier the second time."
I nod, even though I know I won't come back. How can I talk about this with a stranger when I can barely admit the truth to myself?
How can I explain that I'm not sure if I want to be saved?
As I leave her office, I feel the weight of my isolation pressing down like a physical thing. Lucy means well, but she can't understand. Dr. Bergstrom is kind, but she's a professional, not a friend. And everyone else in my life is either a threat or a potential target.
I'm a planet with no moon, orbiting a grief no one can see.
And I'm so, so tired of being alone.
What I don't know—what I can't know—is that in Dr. Bergstrom's office, hidden in the small potted plant on her bookshelf, a tiny microphone is transmitting every word.
