I Need You to Lie for Me

Eliana's POV

The first thing I heard was the annoying, high-pitched beeping of a machine.

The second—my own heartbeat, thudding loud in my ears.

I opened my eyes slowly.

White walls. Clean sheets. Sterile silence.

Hospital.

Again.

This is becoming a habit.

I tried to sit up—but pain shot through me. I winced and sank back.

Somewhere nearby, I heard the soft rustle of a page turning.

A figure sat by the window, reviewing a chart.

Dr. Waylon.

He looked up the moment I moved. Calm. Composed.

"You're awake," he said gently, stepping toward me.

I tried to sit up again and failed.

"What happened?" I croaked.

"You fell," he said, voice steady. "Down the stairs. At home. You hit your head—but you're stable now."

Then it all came crashing back like a tsunami:

The video.

The panic.

The stairs.

My eyes flew open.

"Doctor… the video—did you—?"

He gave a small nod.

"Yes. I saw it. Don't worry—I've instructed the staff not to discuss it. Your privacy is being respected."

A wave of shame slammed into me.

"I'm not pregnant," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"I figured," he replied softly.

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight.

"Dr. Waylon… can I ask you something crazy?"

He pulled the chair closer and sat beside me.

Didn't interrupt. Just listened.

"My life is falling apart," I whispered. "That video... it's everywhere. My parents—"I exhaled. "They're going to kill me. Not literally but... you know."

He said nothing. So I kept going.

"I'm begging you. Help me cover it up. Just for a while."

His expression tensed.

"Eliana, I can't lie to your parents—"

"I'm not asking for lies," I cut in quickly.

"Just… help me."

I looked down. My fingers were trembling.

"I've been pretending for so long, I don't even know what I actually feel anymore. And now, for just a little while… I want to remember. Who I am. Without being judged, yelled at, controlled."

He watched me closely, brows drawn, but said nothing.

"I want three months," I whispered.

"Not to run away. Not to hurt anyone. I just... want to breathe. To be myself—even if it's in pieces."

I swallowed again.

"If they ask, I'll lie. I'll say I don't remember anything. That it's… a condition."

His eyes widened slightly.

"You want to fake a mental illness?"

"No," I said, voice firmer now. "I want you to protect me. From them."

A heavy silence settled between us.

Then—

footsteps.

Voices.

Them.

My parents stormed in like a hurricane.

"Eliana! What the hell was that video?!"

"You embarrassed us!"

"Do you know how many calls we've gotten?!"

Not a single: Are you okay?

Of course not.

What matters most is their reputation—not that I'm bruised, broken, or maybe emotionally falling apart.

I felt myself shrink inside.

Then—

Dr. Waylon stepped forward.

He stood at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, face unreadable.

"Eliana's not physically hurt," he said calmly. "No broken bones. Just bruises from the fall."

My mother gave a tight nod.

My father was already back on his phone.

But then Dr. Waylon's tone shifted—gentle, but sharper.

"Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin," he said. "I need to speak with you. Privately. Outside."

They paused.

My mother glanced between him and me. "Condition?" she repeated suspiciously.

"Yes," he said smoothly. "Please."

After a long pause, they finally followed him out.

Dr. Waylon's POV

She's not faking anything.

She's drowning.

The moment Eliana said she wanted to "remember who she is," I saw it.

That calm exterior? Too polished.

That polite voice? Too rehearsed.

Her entire identity is a survival act.

Her smile is too perfect. Her posture too still.

Everything about her screams: I'm holding myself together with invisible tape.

I used to think she was one of those golden kids—well-behaved, high-functioning, polished.

But now?

Now I see the exhaustion behind her eyes.

Outside her room, her parents stood with folded arms and judgmental glares.

I took a breath.

"She had a psychological episode yesterday," I said evenly.

Her father narrowed his eyes. "Episode?"

"She dissociated," I explained. "Due to emotional overload and stress. That may explain the café incident. It could happen again… if she's pressured."

Her mother frowned. "So she's unstable now?"

"I wouldn't use that word," I replied."But she's fragile. She needs peace, consistency… and compassion."

They didn't respond.

I looked between them and added,

"For the next few months, I suggest you avoid placing any expectations on her. If she forgets something, let her. If she behaves oddly—give her space. This might take time."

That part… wasn't exactly true.

But I didn't care.

Because protecting Eliana's right to breathe meant more than protecting their version of perfection.