Untold Story

Chapter Seven: Tangled Fate

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Trigger Warning:
This chapter includes themes of self-harm, emotional trauma, and grief; reader discretion is advised.
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Evelyn's Pov

The waiting room was quiet, the morning sun filtering through the slatted blinds in pale, broken stripes. A soft hum came from the white noise machine in the corner—a steady whisper that filled the silence without saying anything at all. It was just past 8:30 a.m.—early, even for me—but I didn’t want to wait until lunch. I wanted to get it over with.

I sank into the familiar sofa, the fabric cool against the backs of my legs. I’d been coming here long enough to know where the glare from the windows wouldn’t hit my eyes, and how the fake potted plant in the corner had one leaf that was always bent, no matter how often someone tried to straighten it.

My fingers drifted to the bandage on my forearm, brushing just above the gauze. The skin beneath still stung.

The office door creaked open.

Dr. Jensen stepped in, her presence as soft and composed as always. She wore the same gray cardigan she always did on Fridays, sleeves pushed neatly to her elbows. She glanced at me and offered a gentle smile—warm, but observant. Like she saw more than I ever said out loud.

“Good morning, Evelyn,” she said, moving to her chair and settling in.

“Morning.” I sat up a little straighter, instinctively tugging my sleeve down.

She opened her notebook and lifted her pen—then stopped.

Her eyes had caught the bandage.

She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at it.

Then: “Did you do that to yourself?”

Her voice was quiet. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just… asking.

I shook my head. “No.”

Her gaze lingered on me, calm but steady, like she was waiting for something more. Like she could hear what I wasn’t saying.

“I brushed my hand against the edge of a hot pan.”

She didn’t write that down.

Instead, her eyes stayed on mine, thoughtful. Soft.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come in with a bandage,” she said.

There was no judgment in her voice. Just memory. And something like concern.

I looked down at the floor, at the faint coffee stain just beneath the chair’s leg. It had been there for months. Maybe longer.

“I know,” I said quietly.

And I did.

She remembered. So did I.

There was a time when they weren’t accidents.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at me. “Your appointment was in the afternoon. So why the sudden change?” Her voice was calm, but the question was clear. “Did something happen?”