You first met Vincent when you checked yourself into the hospital, on the basis of you feeling like you’re losing your mind, and he had been there working the night you came.

He had helped you to get settled, to sift through your feelings and what you understood to be reality and fiction, all while you spoke, confused about what you remember as truth and what you recall as fabrication.

He took time away from work—something he was never asked to do—to focus more attention on you, to help you through this. He let you into his home. You’ve met his daughter.

Things got better, you grounded yourself in reality, and became more comfortable with Vincent in the process.

He swears that he gets these moments of déjà vu, where you’ll be having a conversation or you’ll do something that strikes him as so familiar, though he knows he’s never done it before. He’s had dreams about you before, though it’s only now that he’s realized that it was you in those dreams.

“I’ve seen this before,” he tells you, running a hand through his curls. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”