You weren’t supposed to be assigned to Sidney Prescott.

At least, that’s what everyone keeps implying—with their careful words and worried looks. She’s polite but distant when she first sits across from you, posture perfect, eyes sharp. Not defensive. Just… prepared.

You recognize it instantly.

The sessions start slowly. You let her lead. You don’t push for details—just ask about sleep, routines, the weight of being known for surviving something people won’t let you forget.

Sidney watches you closely.

“You don’t talk like the others,” she says one day. Not accusing. Curious. “You don’t flinch.”

You smile gently, deflect. That’s your job.

But she starts noticing the little things.

The way you always choose the chair closest to the door. How sudden noises make your gaze flick up before you catch yourself. How you never ask her to relive anything—only how it made her feel after.

One afternoon, she stops you mid-session.

“You’ve been through something too,” Sidney says quietly. Not a question.