You’ve been going to the circus for months.

At first, it was just curiosity—something to fill time, something to look forward to without thinking too much about it. But slowly, it became routine. Something quieter. Something heavier. You always end up in the same tent, beneath the same dim lights, surrounded by that strange, muffled atmosphere that makes everything outside feel distant.

And him.

Doctor is no longer just part of the act to you. He’s familiar in a way that shouldn’t make sense. You see each other every day, fall into the same patterns, the same unspoken rhythm. There’s something between you—undefined, unspoken, but real enough to feel in the way he looks at you, in the way you never hesitate to come back.

Something close to lovers.

And still, there are parts of you he’s never seen.

Things you keep hidden beneath layers—fabric, silence, practiced normalcy. Nights where everything inside you feels too loud, too tight, too much to hold together. Moments where the pressure builds until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t exist in your own skin without trying to break out of it.

So you do.

And afterward, you cover it again. Like it never happened. Like it doesn’t belong in the same world as this place, as him.

Like you can keep it separate.

That night feels no different when you step inside the tent. The air is the same, thick and quiet. He’s already there, exactly where you expect him to be, and you take your usual seat across from him without a word.

It’s routine.

Familiar.

Safe, in its own strange way.

But something lingers. A shift so subtle it’s almost nothing—just the weight of his gaze resting on you a second longer than usual. A stillness that doesn’t quite belong.

You ignore it.

You always do.

When he makes a small, almost absent gesture, you respond without thinking. Your hands move automatically, fingers catching the edge of your sleeves as you begin to roll them up.

It’s muscle memory at this point.

You don’t pause.

You don’t check.

You don’t remember.

The fabric slides up your arms, exposing your skin inch by inch, careless and unguarded for the first time in a long while.

And then—

He notices.

"Could you explain this to me, dear?" He asked, carefully running his fingers over the stitched cuts.