Mystifying

His face was the first thing I saw.

Not the pale walls. Not the flickering light overhead. Just him—tall, lean, resting against the edge of the bed like he belonged there.

His hair was dark, probably black, spiked just enough to look like he hadn’t tried. A few loose strands fell across his forehead, giving him a messy, careless sort of charm.

His features were soft—calm, almost—but his eyes said something else entirely. Dark and stormy, they flickered with emotions I couldn’t name. There was something broken there. Familiar, even. But the light in the room was too dim to see clearly... or maybe I just wasn’t ready to.

“What can you tell me today, Evangeline?”

The voice pulled me back.

I blinked, and the man was gone.

The room blurred back into Dr. Richardson’s office, just as quiet and clinical as ever.

The soft ticking of the clock above Dr. Richardson’s bookshelf was the only sound besides my breathing. Her office was designed for comfort—calming in a sterile sort of way. The walls were pure white, unmarked, almost too clean, like they had no history. Just like me.

One entire wall was made of glass, offering a wide, uninterrupted view of the Chicago skyline. Sleek towers of glass and steel reached for the clouds, their reflections stretching down into the shimmering surface of the river below. Boats drifted past like they were in no hurry. The traffic on Wacker Drive moved in patient, glinting streams far below, detached from my reality. From up here, the city looked too neat—like a place I didn’t quite belong in.

Far below, I could faintly hear the muffled blare of a siren, distant and fading. Life moved on. Just not mine.

The furniture in the room was modern and minimal, all dark gray and navy blue, arranged with clinical precision. A single orchid—yellow with soft pink veins—sat in a white pot on Dr. Richardson’s desk, the only splash of color in the room.

A hint of lavender drifted from the diffuser on the shelf behind her desk, masking the sterile scent of floor polish.

I sat on a low gray couch, its cushions firmer than they looked, and pulled one leg over the other, my fingers curling around the sleeve of my jacket. A long dark wood coffee table stretched between me and Dr. Richardson, its surface bare except for a silver tissue box and a ceramic mug that said ‘Trust the Process’.

She sat across from me, legs crossed, clipboard resting on her lap. Her straight blonde hair fell just beneath her shoulders, not a strand out of place. Even the way she adjusted her glasses—sliding them down to the tip of her nose—seemed rehearsed, like she had done it a thousand times before.

What was I even supposed to say today? The same dream again? Would she think I was broken for fixating on a stranger’s face?

I pressed my lips together and took a deep breath when she leaned forward in her seat.

“Nothing new or special.” I finally answered her question.

She nodded, writing on the clipboard.

“Anything you’d like to share?” She asked, like she was fishing for a confession.

I suck in another breath through my lips.

“Well,” I began. “It’s not new, but it bothers me.”

She tilted her head, studying me carefully. “Care to enlighten me?”

I swallowed.

“It’s the same dream that I keep having.”

She nodded, understanding, and removed her glasses from her face.

“About the dark, tall, mysterious man?” She questioned.

I swallowed again.

“But each time it’s different,” I tried explaining. “Like every time I dream about him, I witness something new.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

I looked up at the ceiling.

“It’s almost like the setting is unique sometimes. The room is the same… I’m lying in bed, and then he steps in. I would watch him as he sometimes strolls around the bedroom, like he’s searching for something.”

“But he doesn’t see you?”

I took a breath, choosing my words carefully.

“Sometimes he does. Other times, he just comes in and gets something and then leaves again. Sometimes, I even hear other voices in the background, like they’re coming from the hallway outside.”

“And when he sees you, what does he do?”

It took me a moment to gather myself for the answer, thinking back on the dreams.

“He would come and sit next to me and just stare at me for what felt like hours.” I frowned. “And when he talks to me, he only asks me if I’m okay.”

Dr. Richardson nodded, clamming her hands together.

“Anything else?” She questioned.

I shook my head.

“Well, chances are that this man may be someone from your past. Or he reminds you for something from your past.” She informed me. “Which is a good thing for sure.”

My shoulders relaxed as I leaned back against the couch.

“Don’t worry, Evangeline,” she said, leaning forward in her seat. “Your memories will return with time. We just need to be patient.”

I nodded.

“Anything else you would like to discuss with me?”

It took me another moment to think of something.

“I got a notebook a few days ago,” I informed her. “When I get some sort of a reminder of something from what I believe happened in my past, I would write it down.”

Dr. Richardson leaned back in her seat as she spoken.

“And what else?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing new.”

She nodded.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today.” She smiled at me.

I let out a soft breath as she rose to her feet.

“I’ll see you again tomorrow, Evangeline.” She smiled as I got onto my own feet.

She strolled over towards the closed door and opened it for me as I took hold of my side bag on the floor at my sneakers.

“Have a wonderful day.” She smiled when I reached her at the doorway.

She was only three inches taller than me—around five foot eight–but it was because she was wearing two-inch heels.

“Thank you, and you too,” I responded, stepping out into the bright hallway.

“Send my regards to your brother.” She called out into the hall as I made my way towards the elevator ahead.

∞∞∞

On the train ride home, I wrote in my journal.

9 August, 2017

Dear Journal,

The feeling is overwhelming. Not knowing who you are or who you’re supposed to be.

Everyone around me seems so sure of themselves. Like they’ve all received the answers, I’m still searching for.

They told me it was some kind of hiking accident. A fall, a blow to the head. That’s what the reports said.

But sometimes I catch myself wondering—what kind of hike ends with a complete memory wipe and a brother I can’t even picture before three weeks ago?

The mystery of my past doesn’t haunt me half as much as the emptiness does. Like something enormous was once part of my life—and now it’s gone.

The doctors were surprised at how quickly I healed. Preston, my older brother, said I was just lucky—“a fast healer,” he joked. But it didn’t feel like luck. It felt...off. Like something important happened to me, but my body refused to hold on to the evidence.

Legally, I was an adult. But emotionally? I was just… floating. Preston signed the paperwork, made the calls, and scheduled my appointments. I went along with it because I didn’t have a choice. Because I didn’t remember anyone else who would.

He told me that our parents were gone. Dead, both of them. I never cried—not even once.

I wasn’t sure what was worse: that I couldn’t remember losing them, or that I couldn’t remember if I loved them at all.

Maybe if I had another aunt or cousin out there, this would feel less… claustrophobic. But it was just me and Preston.

Each morning I wake up, it’s like I’m living someone else’s life. Pretending to be a version of myself I can’t remember choosing. And that feeling only grows stronger, like a weight pressing against my ribs, threatening to crack them open.

I wonder about the girl in the mirror. Was she funny? Was she kind? Did she like the smell of rain? Did she fall asleep with books pressed to her chest?

I wish I could ask her.

The train slowed, piece by piece, screeching gently along the tracks as the city blurred by in the windows. I leaned back into the cold plastic of my seat, the page fluttering in my hand as we neared my stop.

I stepped off the train, my feet moving on autopilot down the familiar route—past the cracked sidewalk near the laundromat, the boarded-up art store with paint still splashed on the window, and the alley where someone always seemed to be smoking.

The apartment building was old, red brick with ivy climbing halfway up the second floor. Inside, the stairs creaked under my steps, making my way up to the fourth floor. The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and whatever Mrs. Alston from 4B was burning for dinner.

The sun hadn’t set yet, but the shadows inside our unit always came early. A warm glow seeped through the windows in the kitchen, softening the edges of the mismatched furniture Preston insisted had “charm.”

The kitchen was small, barely wide enough for two people. Faded yellow tiles lined the walls, and a rickety wooden table stood against the window that overlooked the fire escape. A little herb garden sat on the sill—basil, mint, and one sad attempt at lavender.

Preston was already moving about the stove, humming off-key to a playlist he refused to update. A saucepan hissed as tomato sauce bubbled low. The air smelled of garlic, oregano, and toasted bread. He was making spaghetti again. It was his go-to when he didn’t want to think.

He always cooked when he didn’t want to talk about something. Not that I could prove he was hiding anything—just a feeling, like his smile came a second too late sometimes. Like maybe he was playing a part, and I was the only one who hadn’t learned my lines yet.

“Need help?” I asked, stepping toward him.

“Nope,” he said too quickly, waving me off with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Go read or something. I got this.”

Even though I wanted to learn how to continue living my life as it was, it was hard with a brother who basically did everything for me, like I was some helpless child in his eyes.

Preston assured me each time that he was the oldest, with three years ahead of me—meaning that he was supposed to take care of both of us. The only thing I could do was conceal myself in my bedroom and stick my nose in one of the many novels I had. That or go to my therapist and doctor’s appointments during the day. Other times when Preston was out, at work, I would visit the bookstore down the street and stop by the coffee shop on the corner.

Just thinking about tomorrow’s appointment with Dr. Channing made me hold back a groan. But I was grateful that Preston was giving me my space and freedom to go to these appointments on my own. It felt a lot more comfortable.

It was still hard to trust him for a slight moment. It wasn’t just the missing memories—it was the way he always answered my questions just vaguely enough to stop me from asking more. And not because I barely knew anything about him, but because we hardly shared anything in common as blood. There was no resemblance that I could spot between us.

Preston was well blonde, but his hair was thicker, messier, and a light ash color. Meanwhile, my hair was thinner with gentle curls hanging down my shoulders, and was a brownish caramel blonde instead. Not to mention, his eyes were baby blue, while mine were as brown as coffee.

But even without looking at our physical appearance, our personalities seemed like complete opposites.

Preston was outgoing, cheerful, and confident. I was shy, quiet, and a bookworm, or so I’ve come to learn myself as. And it suddenly made me wonder more about myself. The things that I didn’t know yet.

I’d stared at the photo albums he showed me—family trips, birthdays, blurry selfies—but none of them sparked anything. Not even a flicker of recognition. It was like watching someone else’s life. A life I’d been dropped into without warning or invitation.

I sank onto the couch in the living room, the fabric threadbare but familiar. I threw my journal on the coffee table, beside a stack of novels whose titles I still didn’t recognize. I picked one up, flipped through the first few pages, but couldn’t focus.

The apartment was quiet, but not peacefully. More like the silence between breaths—always waiting for something to return that never did.

Dinner was quiet at first, save for the clink of silverware and the occasional slurp from Preston. We ate spaghetti with garlic bread and a side salad that was mostly lettuce, and regret.

Preston was trying to make small conversation again, asking about my day and if I’d remembered something. It was our normal routine for the past three weeks. And he still felt like a stranger to me, since I couldn’t even remember having an older brother in my life.

We shared a last name, maybe even blood, but no memories. No proof. Just stories and old photos that didn’t look real to me.

I twirled a noodle around my fork and watched the tomato sauce drip onto the plate.

“Preston,” I said, quietly.

He paused mid-cut, his fork hovering in the air. His blue eyes flicked up to meet mine, alert and hopeful. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, already regretting it. “Never mind.”

“Eva…” His tone softened. “You can tell me anything.”

I shifted in my seat, trying not to flinch under the weight of his attention.

I swallowed, trying to relax my shoulders.

Opening my mouth, I sucked in a deep breath.

“Did I…?”

My brother watched me with wide, curious eyes across from me.

He arched an eyebrow when I didn’t continue.

“Spirits, you remembered something!” He exclaimed, joyfully, with a wide smile on his face.

Spirits? It was the second time he’d said that this week. Not “God” or “thank goodness,” just… spirits. I meant to ask him about it, but the word always caught me off guard. Like something I should understand—but didn’t.

“No.” I quickly shook my head. “No, I mean…”

I sighed.

“Just drop it.”

“No, come on!” He complained. “Hit me with any question, dear sister.” He smirked, leaning forward in his seat.

I tensed at the word ‘sister’, not being very adapted to it yet.

“Well, it’s kind of personal.”

He threw an annoyed look at me.

“Hit me.” He challenged.

I hesitated, trying to find the right way to explain it.

“Before my accident… did I perhaps have… a boyfriend of a sort?”

The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I didn’t know why it mattered—but it did.

Preston froze.

His smile vanished.

And for the first time since I’d known him, he looked… conflicted.

And at that moment, I knew—there was something he wasn’t telling me.