My life was structured, predictable. It had to be. As a psychologist, I spent my days untangling the threads of other people’s minds, piecing together the fragments of their trauma, and offering them a path forward. It was exhausting work, but it gave me purpose.
Outside of my office, my life was quiet. Some might even call it lonely. My apartment in downtown Boston was neat, functional—a reflection of the order I imposed on my world. A few plants lined my windowsill, my attempt at making the space feel less clinical, but even they struggled under my inconsistent care. My mornings started with a strong black coffee and an early run through the park before I stepped into the role of Dr. Evelyn Carter, the composed and competent professional. My personal life? It barely existed. A few casual dates that never went anywhere, a book club I attended more for the routine than the socializing, and a best friend, Olivia, who constantly reminded me that I needed to “live a little.”
“Eve, you’re twenty-six,” she’d say over wine nights in her apartment, sprawled across the couch like she belonged there. “You should be out there making questionable decisions and regretting them in the morning, not psychoanalyzing everyone you meet.”
I’d laugh, shake my head, and offer some excuse about my work. The truth? It was easier to focus on other people’s pain than my own.
Because if I slowed down—if I let myself think too much—I’d remember the ghost of someone I’d once known. Someone who had disappeared from my life without a trace.
Nathan Cole.
I had searched for him, back when it still hurt too much to breathe. His number had been disconnected, his house abandoned. His parents had vanished without explanation. One day, we had been inseparable. The next, he was gone.
So I had buried it. Moved forward. Focused on helping others. And it had worked—until the past walked into my office.
The moment I saw his name on my patient schedule, my breath caught.
Nathan Cole.
It had to be a coincidence. It had to be someone else. But when I called his name in the waiting room, and he stood, my world tilted.
He looked the same. And yet, he didn’t. His once-warm brown eyes were guarded, hollow. The dimple that used to crease his cheek when he laughed was absent. His hair was shorter, more unkempt. The boy who had once been my shadow, my closest friend, was now a stranger.
I forced professionalism into my voice. “Nathan?”
He hesitated before nodding, stepping past me into the office. When he sat down across from me, I noticed the way his fingers twitched against his knee, a restless, nervous habit.
I took a breath and opened his file. “How can I help you today?”
He didn’t look at me. “I don’t remember things.”
I frowned. “What kind of things?”
“Days. Weeks. Sometimes, I wake up in places I don’t recognize.” His fingers curled into a fist. “I see things in the mirror that don’t feel like me.”
A chill ran through me. This wasn’t just memory loss. It was something deeper, something fractured.
Halfway through the session, something shifted. His posture changed. His expression darkened. And when he looked up at me again, his eyes weren’t Nathan’s anymore.
“I don’t trust psychiatrists,” he muttered, voice sharp. “They only dig where they shouldn’t.”
My fingers curled against the chair’s armrest. The warmth in his voice was gone. The way he held himself, the way he spoke—it wasn’t Nathan.
“Who am I speaking to?” I asked carefully.
A slow smirk spread across his lips. “That depends. Who’s asking?”
Realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
Nathan wasn’t just lost in his mind—he wasn’t alone in it.
Dissociative Identity Disorder.
One body. Two personalities.
One side of him didn’t know me. The other? Hated me.
Over the next several weeks, Nathan returned for more sessions. Each time, he was different. Some days, he was the Nathan I had once known, timid and lost, desperately trying to piece himself together. Other days, he was Cole—the other personality. Cold, resentful, untrusting.
But then, one day, something changed.
“I had a dream last night,” Nathan admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “Or maybe it was a memory.”
I leaned forward. “Tell me about it.”
“There was a girl. We were kids. She used to drag me outside to play, even when I didn’t want to. She used to sit with me at lunch. She used to tell me we’d always be friends.”
My throat tightened. “Do you remember her name?”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, something raw and broken flickering in them. “Evelyn.”
I swallowed hard. “That was real, Nathan. We were best friends.”
For a moment, relief crossed his face. But then, his entire body went rigid. A darkness flickered over his expression.
“Lies.”
The voice wasn’t Nathan’s anymore. It was Cole’s.
I held my breath, keeping my voice calm. “Cole, why don’t you want Nathan to remember me?”
He leaned forward, his smirk returning. “Because you left him first.”
A sharp pang of guilt hit me. “That’s not true.”
His eyes darkened. “He waited for you, you know. When he switched schools. He thought you’d follow. Thought you’d find him.” His voice turned to a bitter whisper. “But you didn’t. You forgot him. Just like everyone else.”
My chest tightened. I had tried to find him. I had searched for months, but his family had disappeared without a trace. I had spent nights crying, wondering what I had done wrong.
“I never forgot him,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped looking.”
For the first time, Cole hesitated. The mask cracked. A flicker of doubt.
Then, he let out a quiet laugh. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re just another doctor with a notebook.”
I met his gaze. “No. I’m his friend.”
Cole’s jaw clenched. “I don’t need friends. I protect him.”
My voice hardened. “You’re not protecting him. You’re trapping him.”
Nathan was losing himself. Fast.
I found him at a rundown motel, on the edge of disappearing completely.
“Cole, if you stay, he will die,” I told him, voice unwavering. “And you will die with him.”
He stared at me, something like desperation in his eyes. “I don’t know how to let go.”
I tightened my grip on his hands. “Then I’ll help you.”
Some battles don’t end in victory. Some just end in survival.
And that had to be enough.
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