I knew you in another life...
( Photo of Sam belongs to @hardyoungpro )
Summary — Dr. Hill gets déjà vu when Sam comes to his office
Characters — Sam Giddings, Dr. Alan Hill
Character speech is colour coded for this fic:
Dr. Hill had seen many patients sit in that chair—defensive, exhausted, hurting—but as Samantha Giddings took her seat, something in his chest twisted. The way she held her body—tense, proud, yet so clearly fraying at the edges—it echoed someone he couldn’t forget.
She reminded him of Josh.
Not in voice or appearance, but in the way pain sat just beneath her skin, hiding behind clipped answers and forced smiles.
“I’m fine,” she said. A phrase so often used to shut the door rather than open it.
He didn’t push back. He never did at first.
She glanced at the shelves instead of at him. Her fingers tapped lightly on her knee. When silence fell, she filled it with rushed words—things about coping, about nightmares being normal, about managing.
She reminded him of Josh.
The same controlled chaos. The same instinct to lie to oneself before lying to anyone else. The same illusion of strength.
Dr. Hill nodded, jotting a few notes he didn’t need to read. Because he already knew.
She was breaking. Quietly. Slowly.
But this time, he thought, maybe he could reach someone before the pieces scattered too far. Before he realised he couldn't save them.
Dr. Hill let the silence stretch just a second too long.
Sam broke first. “Is this how therapy's supposed to go?” Her voice was light, but her eyes were restless.
“There’s no right way,” he said calmly, steepling his fingers. “Just your way.”
“I’m fine,” she said again, quicker this time. A reflex, not a statement.
He tilted his head. “You’ve said that twice.”
Sam’s lips twitched. “Would you prefer I say I’m not fine?”
She crossed her arms, leaned back. “I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed.”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “That’s exactly why you came.”
She looked away. “I sleep. I eat. I leave the house. I’m okay.”
Dr. Hill’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice softened. “Saying you're okay doesn’t always mean you're okay.”
Sam was quiet. Her jaw clenched, like she wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.
He watched her closely. She was unraveling, just like he’d seen before. Not all at once—but thread by thread.
“You carry a lot,” he said.
“So does everyone,” she snapped, too quickly.
Dr. Hill didn’t flinch. “But not everyone walks into my office pretending it’s weightless.”
That stopped her. For a moment, she just looked at him. Then, voice small, she asked, “You think I’m lying?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re scared of what happens if you admit the truth.”
Sam looked down at her hands, her knuckles pale from clenching. “If I admit it, it makes it real.”
“Yes,” Dr. Hill said gently. “But it also means you're facing what you've been though. It's the first step to healing.”
Sam blinked slowly, like she was holding something back behind her eyes—tears, maybe, or rage, or just pure exhaustion.
In that instant, it hit him again. The posture. The defensiveness. The deflection disguised as composure. It was so familiar.
Josh had sat in that exact chair across from him, years earlier. Chin high, walls up, smiling when it hurt. Sam wore the same armor now, just better fitted.
Dr. Hill’s thoughts flickered with disquiet. They are more alike than they know.
Both tried to mask pain with sarcasm. Both insisted they were “fine.” Both buried grief in places it festered, unseen.
He should have seen it sooner.
“You don’t have to tell me everything today,” he said aloud, gently pulling her back to the present. “But I hope you’ll let yourself feel something while you’re here.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed. “What if I don’t want to?”
“That’s your choice,” he replied. “But not feeling it doesn’t make it go away.”
She scoffed lightly but didn’t argue. Her hands twisted in her lap.
Exactly like Josh, he thought again. So scared of becoming unrecognizable if they allow themselves to fall apart.
But Dr. Hill felt like he had a second chance now.
He kept his voice low. “The people who say they’re fine the loudest are usually the ones hurting most.”
Sam’s jaw clenched, but her eyes flickered—just for a second.
He saw it. That same crack in the armor he used to catch in Josh’s expressions when he let his guard slip. A war going on inside, masked by a carefully practiced stillness.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asked suddenly.
Dr. Hill kept his expression neutral. “Like what?”
“Like you already know what I’m gonna say,” she muttered.
He leaned forward slightly. “I don’t know what you're going to say. But I do believe pain has patterns.”
Sam looked down. “You’re saying I’m predictable?”
“I’m saying I’ve seen pain take this shape before. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So what, you’ve had other patients who went through…that?”
Dr. Hill didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched her. The way she picked at the seam of her sleeve. The way she held her breath when she didn’t want to show emotion. The faint tremble in her fingers that she tried to hide.
“I’ve known someone who was trying very hard not to fall apart.” He finally said.
Sam’s lips pressed into a tight line.
“You remind me of them,” he admitted. “Not because of what happened to you. But because of how much you’ve carried, and how little you’ve allowed yourself to share.”
There was a long silence.
He shattered, he thought. Because I wasn’t fast enough. Because he smiled and said he was fine, and I believed him.
But instead, he answered, “They didn’t get the help they needed in time.”
Sam’s eyes softened just a little. The edge in her voice dulled. “And you think that’s gonna be me?”
“I think it doesn’t have to be.”
She looked at him—finally looked at him—and this time, she didn’t flinch away.
“…Okay,” she whispered. “Then let’s talk.”
For the first time, Dr. Hill didn’t see the reflection of Josh in her. He saw Sam.
Dr. Hill gave a faint nod, motioning gently to the seat across from him. “Take your time.”
Sam didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.
The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, but not pressing. Like fog that hadn't decided whether to lift or stay.
“…I don’t like talking about it,” she admitted, eyes fixed on a distant point on the floor. “Every time I do, it feels like I’m making it more real.”
Dr. Hill responded calmly, “And maybe part of you wishes it wasn’t.”
Sam let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “I wish a lot of things didn't happen that night.”
He didn’t push. Just waited.
“I can’t sleep without checking every shadow,” she said after a while. “I can’t go near cabins, or woods, or even certain songs without flinching. I jump at heaters when they're turning on.”
Her voice cracked, and she blinked fast.
“And I hate it. I hate that it still lives in my head. I keep telling everyone I’m fine because if I admit I’m not, then what the hell was the point of surviving?”
Dr. Hill’s voice was soft. “Survival doesn’t mean healing happened. It only means you made it through.”
She looked at him, and for the first time, her mask slipped just a little more. “I feel like I left pieces of myself up there. And no one noticed.”
“I noticed,” he said quietly, almost involuntarily.
She tilted her head. “What?”
Dr. Hill cleared his throat. “I meant—I can see that in you now. You’re not invisible here.”
Sam stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of his tone.
Dr. Hill realized he had said it with more weight than intended. Because she wasn’t invisible. Neither was the ghost of Josh, hovering behind her eyes.
And she had chosen to be here.
“I don’t know if this is going to help,” she said finally. “But I’m so tired.”
Dr. Hill nodded. “Then we’ll start there.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a moment. She folded her hands in her lap, fidgeting with a thread on her sleeve. Her voice, when it came, was quieter.
“I keep dreaming that I’m back in that damn lodge.”
Dr. Hill kept his gaze level. “What happens in the dream?”
“Sometimes nothing. Sometimes it’s just silent.” She swallowed. “But sometimes, I hear him. His voice.”
“You mean Joshua,” Hill said carefully.
Sam tensed slightly, but didn’t argue. “I guess.”
He watched her face. The way it shifted, just barely, like someone remembering a burn. “He didn’t hurt me. Not physically. But I see him there. Watching. Waiting. Like he’s still trying to prove a point.”
Dr. Hill’s mind flickered. Josh said something similar once. That no one listened until he screamed.
Sam took a shaky breath. “It wasn’t just him. There were things—those monsters. Wendigos. But the part that gets me the most, the part that sticks—is how alone I felt. Even with people around.”
“And you haven’t told that to anyone else?”
She gave a bitter smile. “I’ve told people I’m fine. That’s close enough, right?”
Hill didn’t smile. “That’s not the same, Samantha.”
She leaned back, wiping her eyes quickly, more annoyed with herself than emotional. “...But why do I feel guilty for surviving?”
“Because you care,” Dr. Hill said. “And because you’ve been left with echoes that haven’t been given room to fade.”
He didn’t say Josh again. But he thought it.
How many times had he heard the exact same sentiment, buried beneath Josh’s anger, his humor, his sanity slipping from him?
Sam exhaled deeply. “I don’t know what to do with all of this. It’s like I came back down that mountain but left part of my head up there.”
“You don’t need to know right now,” Hill replied gently. “You just need to be willing to face it. And you’re already doing that.”
Sam stared at him for a long moment.
As the clock ticked softly on the wall behind them, Dr. Hill jotted down a quick note, even as his mind lingered not on his pen, but on the ghosts that passed through his office.
Two survivors. So different. But hauntingly similar.
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