Hades' Cursed Luna novel Chapter 75

Eve~

It was late when Lia came in for my session. She paled the moment her eyes fell on me. I averted my eyes from her horrified expression. I hadn’t dared to look in the mirror, but I knew I looked like I’d been run over by a truck.

She recovered, and we started our session, carefully avoiding the topic of my recent kidnapping and beating. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk about it—it was me who didn’t want to discuss it. Especially because I would have to confront feelings I wanted to ignore, feelings stirred by what I’d learned from Felicia.

"So, about your dreams... what are they about?" Lia asked.

I thought long and hard. "I barely remember them, but I know they’re nightmares. I wake up screaming."

Lia continued to watch me thoughtfully. "How do you feel afterward?"

I stared into space for a moment. "I feel dread. Like the nightmares are pointing to something, trying to tell me something, a warning." I wasn’t fully lying. I knew they were fragmented memories, lost somewhere in the void of my mind. But I was afraid that would reveal too much of the trauma that Ellen Valmont, the blessed twin, would never have endured. Looking into Lia’s kind eyes, I realized I could never be truly honest with her, no matter what.

It made me feel more alone. I sighed deeply and clenched my fists. There was no point in speaking about them when I had to lie at every turn.

So we continued, with me never fully disclosing the truth. Lia’s questions kept coming, each one gentle yet probing, as if she could sense the hesitation I didn’t want to admit. I offered shallow answers, carefully choosing words that hinted but never truly revealed anything beyond what was safe to share. I told her about small, manageable fears, avoiding the weightier darkness that churned in my chest.

"Have you tried keeping a dream journal?" Lia asked at one point, her voice as gentle as the look in her eyes.

I nodded, but it was half-hearted. I had tried once, but putting pen to paper felt too vulnerable, too exposing. There was something terrifying about seeing those dreams materialize in ink—about confronting the blurred images and fragmented whispers that haunted me. It felt as though writing them down might give them more power, more reality than they deserved.

But the silence stretched between us, thick and almost suffocating, until Lia finally spoke again.

"Ellen," she said, leaning forward slightly, her tone soft but steady. "I know you may feel alone in this, but remember, you don’t have to face it all by yourself. I’m here to help you—no matter how difficult it feels to share."

My heart jumped. It was like she was seeing straight through me. I wondered what she suspected.

Her words hit harder than I expected, striking at the raw loneliness I’d been trying so hard to bury. The reminder of support, of someone willing to listen and understand, felt both comforting and stifling. I was grateful, but the shame of hiding so much gnawed at me. Being Ellen was killing Eve. I would never fully heal. The realization was daunting, but I swallowed it like the bitter pill it was.

"Thank you, Lia." I gave her a faint smile, knowing it didn’t reach my eyes. "I appreciate it."

We wrapped up the session soon after, and I left with a mind that felt more tangled than when I’d arrived. The weight of my secrets pressed down, even more isolating now that I realized how much I held back, even from someone as kind as Lia.

"Try journaling your dreams again," Lia urged as we reached the door. "It might be hard at first, but it will help you process everything, even if you never share it with anyone." Her voice was gentle, reassuring, but there was a subtle insistence in her tone, as if she sensed how deep the roots of my silence went.

I managed a nod, though I knew the journal would stay empty. The things I needed to confront were too dangerous to face alone. The trauma, the darkness—I knew that putting it all on paper wouldn’t bring the peace I craved. It would only invite the memories back in sharper detail.

He hated me, but he was the only one who truly saw me—not just Ellen Valmont, but the real me, buried beneath the layers of lies and the weight of secrets. In his hatred, there was something raw and honest, something that felt more genuine than simple compassion. _{freeωebnovēl.c૦m}