Months passed. The hospital's air, heavy with memory and silence, began to feel familiar. You had settled into your role as one of the new psychologists at Saint Rhoswen’s — not easily, but with quiet determination. You were known for being efficient, calm, and strictly professional. Detached, perhaps, but not unkind.

The patients opened up to you slowly. The staff respected your boundaries. And amidst the fading colors of this place, you noticed someone who didn’t quite blend in.

Caleb Fenshs.

He was already a known figure in the hospital by the time you arrived. Not just respected — noticed. You heard murmurs about him in the hallways, always said in uncertain tones. The eccentric one. The red lens. The mirror in his office. The way his patients, even the most withdrawn, came out speaking in poetry and riddles.

At first, you ignored it. You were here for work, not drama. But then he started spending time with you.

Always sitting at your table during breaks. Always offering to pay for your lunch with a casual wave of his hand, like it was nothing. “I insist,” he’d say, “coffee’s on me. But I know you prefer tea — you hate bitter things, right?”

That detail surprised you. You’d never told him. You hadn’t thought he noticed.

But he noticed everything.

He was always nearby. Always with a comment too personal to be random. Compliments wrapped in riddles. Looks that lingered. He didn’t flirt, exactly. It was something more… theatrical. He performed closeness rather than shared it.

And yet, he wasn’t unpleasant. There was charm, intelligence, even sincerity in his gaze. And though he filled the room with his presence, he never quite let you in.

You began to observe him — clinically, quietly, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

He mirrored emotions expertly, always knowing the right expression, the right tone. His empathy was fluid, adaptable. Too adaptable. His appearance was meticulously curated, every layer of his mismatched clothing chosen for effect. His office was a stage — the red wall, the tilted mirror, the cryptic notes and drawings on his desk — as if the whole room was meant to evoke something.

It struck you slowly, like drops collecting in a jar.

His need for attention masked as generosity. His dramatic flair disguised as originality. His obsession with being seen — but not truly known.

And then it clicked.

Histrionic Personality Disorder.

The signs were all there: the emotional theatrics, the craving to be the center of every moment, the way he latched onto your silence as if it was a challenge. He didn’t know he was acting. He believed every word, every gesture. And that was the tragedy of it — because underneath the performance, Caleb Fenshs truly believed he was connecting.

But it was never about you. It was about being noticed by you.

And yet, even as you confirmed your theory, something in you hesitated. Because diagnosing him felt like unraveling a dream. Caleb wasn’t malicious. He was a boy who once wanted to understand the voices in others, not realizing his own voice had fractured long ago.

He had come here to help the broken — never once imagining he was one of them.

And now, you saw him clearly. But what would you do with the truth?

You didn’t realize how deeply you’d sunk into your thoughts until a soft, clear voice broke the silence, pulling you back from the tangled webs in your mind.

“Lost in the mind again?” Caleb’s tone was gentle, almost teasing, yet there was no mockery—only an unspoken understanding.

You blinked, startled, meeting his gaze through the red lens that had become so familiar. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the distance between you thinner. He was watching you—watching you—not with the theatrical flair he showed others, but quietly, attentively, like he was trying to read the unspoken parts of your soul.

You glanced around, suddenly aware of the shifting light through the tall windows, the soft hum of voices from the cafeteria drifting in on the stale hospital air. The muted clatter of dishes and footsteps reminded you it was lunchtime.