Trauma changes people. trauma changes everyone.
All rights for the 9-1-1 cast and all rights to most of the plot goes to ABC. New plots and new characters belong to me 🫶
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LYDIA
The house had never felt this small. Every corner, every shadow, every creak in the floorboards was another place for paranoia to fester. It had been a week since I got out of the hospital, and Miles had barely left my side. He was supposed to be my rock, keeping me grounded, but even he was starting to crack under the pressure of me obsessing over this stalker.
I couldn't help it. People make mistakes. Criminals make mistakes. They're human. It's just a matter of finding the cracks, the loose threads. That's what I told myself every time I scanned the house for the millionth time, flipping through my memories like pages in a book, searching for something-anything-that didn't fit.
Miles didn't see it that way. He'd been arguing with me all morning, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his jaw clenched in frustration.
"This is ridiculous, Lydia," he said for the third time, his voice tight.
I didn't bother looking up from the dining table where I sat hunched over my laptop. "The fact you even have to say that sentence-'the stalker didn't come into the house'-is all the proof I need that I should be doing this."
"They didn't come into the house!" he argued. "Why are you tearing it apart like they did? You're driving yourself insane over nothing."
"Nothing?" I snapped, my head jerking up to glare at him. "Really, Miles? Nothing? Someone took photos of me. Of my car. Of my freaking license plate. You call that nothing?"
Miles threw his hands up in frustration and turned away, muttering something under his breath.
"Exactly," I said, turning back to my laptop and typing furiously. I was on the nearby police department's website, scrolling through their officer directory. The man who'd come to the door yesterday-the fake cop-hadn't left my mind. His face was burned into my memory. There had to be some kind of mistake he'd made, something I could use to prove I wasn't crazy.
Nathaniel, sitting on the couch with his phone, looked up and raised an eyebrow. "What are you even doing?"
I didn't answer him.
"Lydia," he pressed, standing up and walking over to the table. He leaned over my shoulder, trying to get a look at the screen.
"I'm finding him," I muttered, my voice low but determined.
Nathaniel scoffed. "Finding who? Lydia, this is insane. You need to stop."
I ignored him, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
Miles suddenly pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, his face set in a hard, frustrated line. He glanced at my screen, his brows furrowing before he looked back at me.
"This is getting ridiculous," he said flatly.
"How is it ridiculous?" I snapped, slamming my hands on the table. "I'm the one in danger! Everyone's acting like this is some sick joke, like it's not real."
Nathaniel crossed his arms, shaking his head. "Do you think we'd be sitting here if we thought it was a joke? We're literally on shifts to make sure you're safe, Lydia."
"Exactly! Shifts! You're proving my point." My voice was rising now, the frustration boiling over. "I can't just sit here and do nothing. I have to figure this out. The police aren't doing anything. Athena can't even help because she's too close to me. It's not important enough to them!"
Miles leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "And it's not your job to figure it out. It's your job to stay calm and not let this eat you alive."
"How am I supposed to stay calm?" I yelled, my voice cracking. "There's someone out there who's been watching me, Miles. Watching me. Taking pictures of me. They know everything-my car, my license plate. How can you expect me to sit back and do nothing? It's game over if I don't do something!"
Miles shook his head, pushing his chair back and standing up. "I can't do this right now."
He walked into the living room, leaving me sitting there, my chest heaving.
Nathaniel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He's right, you know."
"Of course you'd say that," I muttered bitterly.
"Because it's true," he shot back. "This isn't healthy, Lydia. You're going to break yourself."
"Then let me," I snapped.
Nathaniel threw his hands up in frustration, muttering something under his breath as he walked off toward the kitchen.
I slumped back in my chair, my fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. Instead, I hugged my knees to my chest, resting my head on them as my fingernails dug into my legs.
