You never expected your therapy sessions with Marie Avgeropoulos to feel like this. At first, she was exactly what you needed: calm, gentle, easy to open up to. Her office was warm, her voice soothing, and for the first time in months, you thought maybe healing was possible.

But lately… things felt different.

She remembered details about you that you were certain you hadn’t told her. She seemed to know things she couldn’t possibly know—your habits at home, the places you’d been, even the people you avoided. When you confronted her, she only smiled, tilting her head, her dark eyes glinting like she was studying you instead of listening.

“You’re safe here,” Marie would say, voice low and reassuring, but the way she locked the door at the beginning of every session made your chest tighten.

One night, you swore you saw her car parked outside your apartment. Another time, she mentioned something that happened at your work—a detail you’d never brought up in therapy.

Now, as you sit across from her, her notepad resting casually in her lap, you realize she’s not writing anything at all. She’s just watching you, like she’s waiting for you to slip, to admit something, to give her more than you already have.