Khorshid constantly asks me if I'm still keeping my diary. I always answer with a firm "No." I don't know why I lie to him, but something deep within my soul urges me to delude him into thinking I write nothing at all. I work tirelessly to hide my papers under the heavy oak wardrobe after every session.
His persistence is strange. What does he gain from knowing whether I write or not? For now, my words will remain a secret until the fog clears. Is his concern genuine, as the doctor claims, or is there a darker motive lurking beneath his repetitive questions?
One evening, I realized I would wake up as someone entirely different. That thin thread between my past and present had finally snapped. In its place, a cold, numb woman emerged. The old version of me—the girl who was enchanted by a red rose or a kind word—is dead. To this new woman, sweet talk is like a cup of coffee that has lost its aroma: hollow and worthless. I miss my old self, but this new version kills that longing the moment it's born. Life requires the death of one thing for the birth of another. It's cruel, but perhaps it's necessary for survival.
Today was my first appointment with the psychiatrist. Everything I knew about him came from Khorshid's stories and the prescriptions he wrote to "restore my mental health." I gathered a thousand questions in my mind, hoping for answers that would make sense of this grotesque reality.
I waited for him in the study on the ground floor, my breath hitching with anticipation. Today, I would take a step toward understanding the ugliness that makes me feel like a broken machine.
The doctor entered—a man in his fifties, exuding an air of dignified authority. Despite his age, he was remarkably handsome and impeccably dressed. He greeted me with a professional coldness before sitting across from me.
"Have those thoughts attacked you again?" he asked mechanically.
"What thoughts?" I countered.
"Have you forgotten our previous conversation so quickly?"
"What? Have we met before?" I stared at him, bewildered. "I don't know you. I've never seen you before. I don't even know your name!"
He hummed, a sound of clinical disappointment. "Mmm... it seems your condition is far worse than I imagined. When Khorshid wrote to me, I thought he was exaggerating."
I snapped at him, insisting I had never seen his face. With a terrifyingly calm voice, he dropped a bombshell: this was the fourth time he had seen me since I woke from my coma.
Nonsense! Again, the world was dissolving into lies. I was too exhausted to fight. I stood up, demanding to end the session. But he stopped me with a voice like silk: "Asia... I'll let you go, but first, I have a very tempting offer."
I stopped, though I didn't turn around. He continued in a triumphant tone: "I can let you sail through your memories for fifteen minutes. It might make you happy to learn something about your past life."
I spun around and sat back down like a child waiting for a mother's return. "Let's do it quickly," I told him. He smiled slowly, instructing me to lie on the chaise longue and relax completely. The last thing I heard was his voice counting to ten, telling me to choose a door.
I chose the red door. The door of love.
I stepped through and found myself on a crowded beach. The sun was bright, the air salty, but I felt lost. I didn't recognize a single soul. Suddenly, a hand tapped my shoulder. It was a waiter from a nearby café. He told me my coffee had gone cold and they had replaced it twice.
I followed his lead, trying to act natural. On my table, I found pens and papers. Khorshid had mentioned I was a writer. I flipped through the pages, but they were all blank—except for one, which bore a single name: Khorshid.
What did it mean? Did I know him then? Were we already lovers?
A hundred questions swirled in my head until Khorshid himself appeared. His presence was commanding, his handsomeness striking. Why hadn't I noticed it in the present? Was my love for him that powerful? He sat at the opposite table, his eyes following me with intense adoration, a permanent smile on his face.
I didn't know how to act, so I waited. The waiter returned, saying the gentleman opposite wished to offer me some sweets. I accepted and invited him to join my table. Khorshid was tender, poetic. He kissed my hand with royal respect before sitting.
"I can't wait," he whispered. "What is your answer to our conversation from yesterday?"
I didn't understand, but I didn't want to seem strange. Before I could speak, he rescued me: "It's marvelous that after our long romance, we are finally crowning it with marriage. I know you want this as much as I do."
He produced an elegant wedding ring from his jacket. It was a proposal out of a fairy tale. In that moment, he was a man no woman could refuse. I reached out, a wide smile breaking across my face. Finally, something good was happening.
I examined the ring with joy, but then I saw it. Inside the band, a name was engraved. Not mine.
"Madeline."
"Madeline?" I whispered, a cold dread rising. "Who is Madeline?"
Suddenly, a violent migraine clawed at my skull. The ring slipped from my fingers. I clutched my head, screaming in agony. The world around me blurred. Faces became distorted masks. A voice called out: "Asia! Asia!"
Someone grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the memory. I was back in the study, and the doctor was leaning over me, trying to revive me.
I kept repeating the name Madeline. When I told the doctor what I had seen, he gave me a philosophical, scientific answer that meant nothing. I begged him to send me back, but he refused, claiming it was too dangerous for my fragile mind. He told me the next session would be in a week.
I asked him if the memories were real. He assured me they were, except for a few details my mind might have invented to fill the gaps—like the name "Madeline."
But something felt wrong. The memory was cold, soulless. It felt like a scene from a poorly written novel. Khorshid, despite his kindness, felt like an actor reciting a rehearsed script. Even the waiter felt lifeless.
How could we be in a long-term relationship yet he had to ask a waiter to bring me sweets or ask to join my table? Shouldn't the barriers have been gone? Why was he so stiff?
The doctor narrowed his eyes as he listened to my analysis. A strange look crossed his face. "Why do you exhaust your mind with these details? Now I understand why you aren't responding to the treatment."
I told him he was discouraging me, and he quickly pivoted, claiming he was just amazed by how my mind noticed the smallest details—a "dangerous" sign for my mental health.
Lady Nazli knocked and entered with her usual cold elegance. "Is everything alright, Doctor? Does my daughter-in-law need anything?"
The doctor smiled at me. "She is lucky to have such a mother-in-law. Everything is fine, though she needs a new treatment plan. The issue lies deep within her mind, not just the accident."
A muffled laugh escaped her dark-painted lips. "I wish for her to return to her old self. This palace has become a hell because of her illness."
They both looked at me like I was a broken toy. I rolled my eyes. Idiots.
When they left, the doctor asked me to relax again, but I refused, claiming I was tired. In reality, I just wanted to escape his presence. My heart didn't trust him. I felt he was an accomplice in their game. I am not mad. I can think. I can connect the threads. There is a mystery in this family, and I will uncover it. But who is Madeline?
I didn't sleep that night. I replayed the memory over and over. I pushed my brain to the limit. Khorshid's face began to tremble in my mind. His voice merged with the sound of the sea. My skull felt like it was going to explode. I screamed from the sheer intensity of the pain.
I fell to the floor, clutching my head. For a fraction of a second, the fog cleared.
It wasn't Khorshid in the café.
It was the doctor!
The man sitting across from me, the man who gave me the ring, the man who pulled me out of the dream—it was him. He had manipulated my thoughts! He had replaced Khorshid in my own memory!
The pain became unbearable. Khorshid and Shams burst into the room, grabbing my arms. I struggled, screaming that they were villains, that they were playing with my life. Khorshid gave me a sedative—heavier than the ones before.
The next morning, I woke up like a corpse. Khorshid approached me, his eyes filled with a sadness that seemed impossible to fake. He kissed my forehead, his voice breaking. "I promise you'll be okay, my love. I won't let you face this alone, even if I have to sit at your feet for the rest of my life."
For a moment, I sensed a truth I hadn't felt before. But how could his present honesty coexist with their past lies?
In a weak whisper, I asked to see the doctor again. I wanted to confront him with the truth I had discovered. Khorshid looked at me with confusion.
"Again? The doctor hasn't even visited yet, my love. He sent his apologies yesterday and promised to come next Saturday!"
My eyes widened. I shook my head in frantic denial. "You're a liar! I sat with him! He took me into my memories! I saw the truth!"
He sighed and pulled an elegant envelope from his pocket. He read it aloud:
"Dear Mr. Khorshid, I deeply apologize for missing our appointment tomorrow due to unforeseen circumstances. I will see you next Saturday. Please accept my sincerest apologies. — Dr. Elias Sadek."
He handed me the letter. "Look for yourself, Asia. It has the postmark, the stamps... everything. Please, I miss the woman I love. I can't take these accusations anymore."
I stared at the paper, a silent scream trapped in my chest. Was I truly losing my mind?