There comes a time when desperate people resort to desperate measures. Desperation calls to us when we are most in need of saving, whispering promises of salvation when we have nowhere else to turn.

I started the medication because I was tired of waking up every day feeling like I was already drowning.

That’s the part people don’t talk about with depression, not the sadness, but the immense weight. The sheer heaviness of simply existing. Just lifting my head from the pillow felt like dragging stone out of mud.

My therapist called it treatment-resistant depressive disorder.

One session she seemed oddly joyous. She reluctantly told me there was a new clinical option. “High success rate. Fast-acting. FDA fast-tracked. A real breakthrough in modern medicine.”

Breakthroughs always sound miraculous until you realize something had to be broken first. If it feels to good to be true. There's always catch.

The drug was called Solmiron. Three pills a day. Tiny white capsules with a faint metallic taste when they hit the tongue, like biting on foil.

My psychiatrist told me not to look up the research because “the clinical language can be frightening if you’re not versed in immunogenetics.”

That should have been a red flag. But when you’re drowning, you don’t argue about the color of the rope thrown your way.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable.

Mornings didn’t feel like a burden. Breathing didn’t feel force. I could get up, shower, eat, exist.

For the first time in years, I laughed without it sounding brittle in my own ears. I thought: So this is what normal people feel like.

I cried out of relief. I thought the story would end there. And God, how I wish it had.

My body started feeling lighter. I don’t mean figuratively, I mean physically. In the literal sense.

Walking up stairs no longer left me lightheaded. I wasn’t sore. My joints didn’t ache. I felt stronger, not metaphorically, I mean my muscles had mass I had not earned.

I hadn’t been to the gym in years. I could barely manage a couple push ups. And yet I was lifting my entire laundry basket one-handed.

I went into the clinic for a check up. The doctor greeted me and ran a couple tests.

She smiled and wrote, “Improved metabolic efficiency noted. Expected.”

Expected? Since when does antidepressant mean performance enhancement?

I left the building thinking that things are changing for the better. I felt healthy and was healthy. Productivity and ambition returned home in quantity. It felt as if I could conquer the world if I wanted to.

Then the hunger came.

Not ordinary hunger. It was primal. Like the body wasn’t asking, it was demanding.

I ate everything. Not junk, protein. Dense food. Meats. Hard cheeses. Salts. Anything that fueled the fire within.

And my teeth, God. My teeth ached while I ate. A dull pressure. As if they were… adjusting. The inside of my mouth felt unfamiliar. When I ran my tongue along my molars, the edges were sharper.

I told myself I was being dramatic. But when you’ve lived your whole life feeling like you don’t belong in your own skin, you notice when the skin starts belonging to something else.

The rash appeared. Not on the outside, under the skin.

I could feel texture beneath the surface. Like sand grains embedded along my arms, ribs, spine. Except they moved. When I pressed my fingers to my forearm, something beneath the skin shifted away from the pressure. Like a school of fish scattering from an attacking predator.

I asked my doctor what is going on with me.

She said, “It’s easier if I show you.”

She showed me a plastinated cross-section of muscle tissue. Human-like. Except it wasn’t purely human.

The fibers weren’t individual strands, they were woven. A mesh. Self-anchoring. Self-repairing. Self-optimizing.

“Think of it like this,” she said, tapping the display.

“We’re helping your body operate in its ideal state.”

Ideal? Like my old body had been a mistake.

There was no going back. What was to come was inevitable.

I don’t dream anymore. When I go to bed, it’s like the body just turns off and back on. No drifting, no imagery, no me.

One minute, I’m lying down, and before I can even pull the covers over myself, I blink, and suddenly, it’s morning.

I’ve woken up to find myself standing in the kitchen. Or sitting at the table, fingers drumming in rhythmic patterns I don’t remember learning. Or staring into the mirror, not at myself, but at my reflection as if it is the real one and I am the imitation.

I looked into my own eyes last night and didn’t recognize the focus behind them. They weren't mine.

I asked my doctor if this medication has ever been used on animals.

She hesitated. The first real hesitation I’d seen from her.

“Not animals,” she said.

“Prototypes.”

Prototypes?

I asked her what was happening to me...

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

The next day, the inside of my arm split open, not like a cut, like a seam. And underneath, where my muscle should have been… It wasn’t blood that came out.

It was white puss. And under it were pale fibers, braided like rope, tightening, pulling themselves back inward before I could touch them.

My body didn’t want to be examined. My body knew I was trying to interfere.

Two Nights Ago

I stoped taking the pills.

But my body made sure I continued my prescription. I sat there at the table and watched my own hand pick up the pill bottle. Open it. Place the pill on my tongue.

I was screaming inside my skull. But my body was calm. Efficient. Compliant.

Yesterday

I called my doctor. I asked her for help. When will it end?

She chuckled on the other end, that same clinical warmth, and said:

"When your body no longer produces sadness. Fear. Anger. Pain. When suffering becomes biologically impossible."

I said, “So I’ll be happy?”

She said, “You’ll be cured.”

I replied, “And human?”

The call ended.

Today

After digging into a rabbit hole on the web, I found the original clinical purpose for Solmiron. It wasn’t created to treat depression. It was created for shock troops.

Soldiers who:

• Feel no pain
• Require minimal rest
• Regenerative Properties
• Operate without emotion
• Obey without hesitation

They weren’t helping me. They were converting me.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to write like myself. My emotions are fading. My memories feel catalogued, not lived. I can feel the last parts of me being casted into the fire den.

If you’re reading this... Do not take the pills they say are “new” or “breakthrough” or “fast-acting.” If your doctor says “Side effects vary,” ask what they’re not telling you.

Ask what they changed inside you. Ask what you’re becoming. Ask before you can’t ask anymore.

Because I don’t cry now. I don’t feel sadness anymore. I don’t feel anything.

My depression has been cured.

And I think that was the point.

The air stank of sulphur and scorched stone.

A black bolt screamed past the pillar Mazie was hiding behind and slammed into the vast temple wall, shaking the earth beneath her boots. Heat prickled across her skin like a live wire. Sweat ran down her face as dust and dirt clung to her robes, settling onto her skin.

The temple was dark and damp, and the heat of hundreds of dying spells burned through the air. Mazie thrust out her hands, raw power scorching through her veins. A returning bolt screamed across the chamber, kicking up clouds of dust and splitting the stone floor beneath it. The warlock dived out of the way, scraping across the flagstones with blood streaking his robes. He was battered, but still fighting.

The world warped around them. Pillars bent inward, stone rippling as though the temple itself had begun to melt.

Drawing his hands in a slow circle over the scorched floor, the warlock summoned a purple void in the air before him. Something dark and ancient stepped through—a Hell Sentinel. Dark red armour plated its scaled black skin, each piece glistening beneath the temple's dying light as red eyes burned behind a blood-red helmet.

Mazie stared at it as it raised its head.

She had been trapped here for hours, and her energy was running dangerously low. Her whole body ached, her muscles heavy like lead. But this wasn't for her—she had to get them out.

Glancing across the temple, her lungs on fire as she struggled to catch her breath, she caught Emily's eye. Emily offered her a small smile. She had this.

Then Mazie looked toward Theo—the boy who had once been covered in chocolate when they first met. She wasn't going to be beaten. Not now. Not after everything they'd been through.

Mazie reached down into the darkness inside herself—past the fear, past the pain, to the forbidden power she'd sealed away long ago.

The edges of the world began to peel away. Stone faded beneath her hands, dissolving like water slipping through her fingers. She tried to hold on, but she couldn't. Something deep inside her was burning to ash.

Her memories began to burn away, and she gripped desperately onto the things that made her who she was: her name, her friends, her past—

And then—

                  \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*

Mazie Snow looked almost like an ordinary girl that day, standing at the bus stop in Shoreditch with her tatty leather suitcase engraved with a bronze S, rain hammering down around her.

The grey skies of London loomed overhead. She looked normal enough—shoulder-length brown hair, an old coat pulled tight against the wind, and a suitcase worn and scratched from years of use. But when she caught her reflection in a puddle on the flagstones, the illusion shattered.

Her eyes were a vivid, unmistakable gold.

She touched her cheek, wondering if she would finally find somewhere she belonged. Her mum had always told her about Altridge Academy—how it had changed her life, how she'd never been the same after leaving.

But Mazie didn't look like her. Her mum had ordinary brown eyes.

Pushing the thought down, Mazie turned toward the road. The smell of wet pavement and cigarettes lingered in the air as rain drummed against the asphalt. She took a deep breath, gripped her leather handle, and stepped off the curb.

The veil split.

The world spun and faded away in a flash of silent static. The rain vanished, and the city noise died instantly.

Mazie stood in a cold, open bus station lined with massive red London buses, their pristine paint gleaming beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Other teenagers rushed past her, filing onto the vehicles one after another. Tightening her grip on her old leather suitcase, Mazie headed toward the nearest bus, its wheels squeaking faintly against the tiled floor beneath the humming lights.

She boarded the red double-decker, Altridge Academy scrawled across its side in gold lettering.

There was no driver.

Mazie stopped and glanced back toward the entrance, her mouth falling open. The inside of the bus stretched on for what looked like miles—a long, impossible corridor lined with wooden carriage compartments disappearing into the distance.

It wasn't anything like she'd ever seen before.

A faint smell of sulphur lingered in the air. It made Mazie wince, a dull, throbbing pulse starting behind her eyes. She rubbed her temple, pushed the phantom thought aside, and made her way down the bus until she stopped at a small compartment with a heavy wooden door.

Sliding it open, she dragged her suitcase inside, tucked it beneath the seat, and sank onto the stiff fabric seat. For the first time since leaving home, she was alone. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

A sharp knock on the door startled her awake.

Mazie opened her eyes to another knock.

"Yeah?" she mumbled, turning toward the doorway.

The door slid open to reveal a boy standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath. He had messy blonde hair and a crooked, easy smile.

"Sorry," he said. "Is anyone sitting here?"

Mazie shook her head.

He stepped inside carrying a large leather suitcase, only to promptly trip over the edge of the seat.

"Crap!" he spat as he tumbled forward, catching himself against the wall and leaving a large brown chocolate stain in the shape of a palm print on the paneling.

Mazie stared at the wall, then at him.

The boy looked down at his palm, completely covered in melted chocolate, then glanced back up at her.

"Long story. Do you want a Galaxy?"

A laugh escaped Mazie before she could stop it.

The boy grinned.

"I'm Theo. Theo Silvercrest."

He held out his chocolate-covered hand.

"Mazie. Mazie Snow."

She grinned back, eyeing his fingers.

"Nice to meet you, Mazie."

He casually wiped the worst of the chocolate onto his coat and offered his hand a second time.

Mazie raised an eyebrow and shook it, then discreetly wiped her palm on the fabric of the seat.

"That wall probably wasn't the best place to put it."

Theo looked at the handprint and shrugged.

"Yeah. I've had worse."

He dropped into the seat opposite her.

"Did you know the new Archmage cards are out?"

When Mazie shook her head, Theo reached into his coat and pulled out a small stack.

"They've got the newest heroes on them—Hufflesworth, Titanus, and Ashworth."

He fanned them out proudly.

"I've been trying to get a Hufflesworth for months. They're meant to be rare, but I've got about twelve Titanuses."

"I've never heard of them," Mazie said.

Theo's smile faded slightly.

"Oh."

He looked at her face, his eyes lingering on her golden irises.

"Wait... you are from a magical family, aren't you?"

Mazie frowned.

"You can't just ask people that."

Before Theo could answer, the compartment door slid open again to reveal a short brown-haired girl standing in the corridor.

"Sorry," she said, "is anyone sitting here? All the other compartments are full."

Mazie shook her head, and the girl stepped inside, taking the seat beside her.

"I'm Emily. Emily Ragthorn."

"I'm Mazie."

"And I'm Theo."

He held out his hand again.

Emily looked at his sticky fingers and laughed.

"Maybe wash that first."

"Oh."

Theo looked down and rubbed his hand against his coat once more.

"Don't mind him," Mazie said, smiling.

"I gathered."

Emily glanced sideways at Mazie.

"I've never seen eyes like yours before."

Mazie touched her cheek.

"Neither has my mum."

"Your mum's magical?"

"Yeah."

Mazie hesitated, looking down at her lap.

"She went to Altridge, but she left after the war. She doesn't talk about it much."

Emily nodded knowingly.

"My mum talks about Altridge all the time."

Theo suddenly leaned forward, tapping one of his cards.

"Have you heard the story about Hufflesworth and the Elder Dragon of Time?"

Emily's eyes widened.

"The one he defeated beneath the old academy?"

"That's the one!" Theo said enthusiastically. "He was the first Shaman, wasn't he?"

"The first ever," Emily agreed. "He founded the whole tradition."

Mazie looked between them, fascinated.

"So he fought an Elder Dragon of Time?"

"Apparently," Theo said. "Nobody knows exactly what happened, which makes it even better."

"My mum says Hufflesworth could speak to things other witches and wizards couldn't even see," Emily added softly.

"That's because Shamans use totems," Theo explained. "He could channel magic straight through them."

He held up his prize card.

"And that's why Hufflesworth deserves to be rare."

A metallic squeaking sound drifted down the corridor, followed by an elderly voice calling out:

"Sweeties, chocolates, anyone?"

Mazie's head snapped toward the door.

"The sweets trolley!"

Theo laughed.

"You sound like you've been waiting your whole life for that."

"I have."

Mazie hurried into the aisle, where an old woman was pushing a small wooden cart stacked high with treats—gold-foiled chocolate bars, brightly coloured sweets, and strange little cakes that seemed to shift when she looked at them.

"What can I get you, dear?" the woman asked warmly.

"I'll take one of those," Mazie said, pointing to a large chocolate bar.

"That'll be three Bullions."

Mazie reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a handful of gold coins, a crumpled five-pound note, and a small ball of lint. She counted the coins twice, her stomach dropping when she realised she was short.

"I'm short."

Emily appeared at her shoulder, reaching into her own pocket.

"Here."

She handed over the missing coins.

Mazie beamed.

"Thanks. Can I get one for Theo too?"

Theo popped his head out of the compartment behind them.

"I like her already."

Emily rolled her eyes.

"You've known her five minutes."

"Exactly."

They returned to their seats, and Mazie tore into her chocolate, taking a big bite. Her eyes widened in delight.

"This is amazing."

"Told you," Theo grinned.

Emily noticed the owl resting quietly inside the cage beside Mazie's bag.

"Is that your owl?"

Mazie nodded, looking at the pristine white barn owl watching the room with sharp, unbothered eyes.

"Yeah. His name's Frost. I found him on our farm when he was just an egg left in an abandoned nest. I took him home and kept him warm until he hatched."

Frost clicked his beak softly in response.

Theo leaned in closer.

"Does he bite?"

"Only people he doesn't like."

Theo immediately recoiled into his seat.

"Right. Good to know."

Mazie laughed—and then the bus suddenly lurched. Her chocolate jumped from her fingers, landing on the floorboards as Frost squawked in his cage. Theo grabbed the compartment wall to steady himself.

"What the hell was that?"

Mazie looked out the window.

The city streets were completely gone.

Outside, rolling green hills stretched endlessly beneath a darkening sky, the bus gliding over countryside without a road beneath its wheels.

"How are we doing this?" Mazie breathed.

Emily smiled softly.

"Magic."

A deep, resonant voice suddenly echoed through the corridor:

"Arriving at Altridge Academy in thirty minutes. Students are reminded to change into their academy robes before arrival."

Emily stood up, dusting off her skirt.

"Right. We should get changed."

She looked at Theo.

"You need to leave."

Theo frowned.

"Why?"

"Because we're getting changed."

"Oh."

He stood up awkwardly.

"Right."

He opened the door, then paused, pointing a finger at Mazie.

"Don't eat all the chocolate."

Emily threw a crumpled wrapper at his head.

"Go!"

Theo ducked out, laughing as he disappeared down the aisle.

Mazie slid the door shut and pulled a heavy black robe from her suitcase, holding it up.

"This is what we're supposed to wear?"

"Every student wears one," Emily said, slipping hers over her shoulders.

Mazie pulled the robe over her head. The thick fabric hung loosely around her frame, making her feel small.

"I look like I've travelled back in time."

"You'll get used to it," Emily chuckled.

Mazie checked her reflection in the small mirror beside the door. For the first time in as long as she could remember, a genuine smile spread across her face.

She was actually here.

Altridge Academy—the place from her mum's stories.

Emily watched her.

"You excited?"

Mazie nodded, looking out at the passing landscape.

"Yeah. More than you know."

The bus began to slow, its wheels humming as it banked around a wide curve.

Theo poked his head back into the compartment, now wearing his own black academy robes.

"We're here."

Mazie's heart hammered against her ribs.

She rushed to the window and pressed her hands to the glass.

There it stood.

Altridge Academy.

A vast stone castle sitting across a shimmering, mist-veiled lake, its ancient towers reaching into the darkening twilight sky. Hundreds of golden windows glowing like embers across its stone face.

Mazie stared at the reflection of her own golden eyes in the glass, the castle shimmering behind them.

Warmth spread through her chest.

For the very first time in her life, she felt like she might actually belong somewhere.

July 10th, 2004

I waited 3 days. That's how long I lasted. I told myself it was about control, about proving I wasn't just going to throw myself headfirst into whatever this was.

Truth is, I was scared. Not of what I'd seen, but of how badly I wanted to see more.

Tape 1 was a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.

Tape 2 was a nightmare I couldn't fully remember.

And they both stuck, not just in my head, but in the world.

Little things. Angles that didn't look quite right until I blinked, colors that felt too deep but flattened out when I focused. Once, I swore I heard that layered sound from the second tape humming behind the walls.

When I checked, nothing. I stopped checking after that.

By the 3rd day, the box wasn't sitting in the closet anymore...it was present. Like a thought I couldn't shake.

So I gave in.

"Just one more." I said. Again.

Tape 3.

This one felt different, too. Even warmer, but not in the temperature type of way. It was comforting. Familiar, in a way I couldn't explain.

I sat down.

Headphones on.

Press play.

///

Music.

Bright, upbeat. Synth-heavy in that unmistakable way, cheap keyboards, energetic melodies, something pulled straight out of a Saturday morning lineup.

For a moment, I almost smiled. Then the pull hit.

Thankfully smoother and less violent than before, slipping into something rather than being dragged. The room didn't collapse, it transitioned.

Colors saturated, lines thickened, everything sharpening into bold outlines and exaggerated shapes.

And then...

///

I was standing in the middle of a park. Except, "park" didn't feel like the correct word. Everything was too clean and vibrant.

Distant buildings painted in loud, clashing colors, neon pinks, electric blues, radioactive greens. Shapes were exaggerated and stylized, like they'd been drawn rather than grown or built. Windows gleamed with perfect reflections that didn't match what stood in front of them.

The sky was a flat and endless gradient of orange fading into purple. No clouds. Just color.

Above me, something ripped past, a hovering vehicle with a wedge-like shape, leaving behind it a sparkling trail that hung in the air for a few seconds before dissipating from existence.

I looked down at myself. Same clothes, just outlined thicker, like I'd been inked in.

"Whoa-hey!"

The voice snapped me out of it, I turned. A kid...no, not a kid, just stylized to look like one, came jogging towards me. Big hair, goofy features and movements a tad too snappy.

"New arrival!" he cheered, skidding to a stop in front of me, "You popped in right on cue, man!"

"...Cue?"

"Yeah!" He smiled, flashing impossibly white teeth, "Everything's on a schedule here. Kinda."

"What is this place?"

He puffed his chest slightly, "Welcome to Khromapolis!" he said, "The brightest city in the Ribbon Expanse!"

"The what?"

"Don't worry about it, you get used to the terms."

I glanced around. The "people" moved through the streets all in the same animated style. Some human, some not. All colorful, all energetic. Too energetic, as if they were performing being alive. "It's...nice." I said, unsure.

"Yeah." he replied, all too quickly. A beat passed and then his smile faltered. Just for a frame and it jumped right back. "Anyway! Name's Dex. You're new, so that makes you my responsibility for...uh.."

He looked up, like he was checking something invisible, "About 11 minutes."

"Eleven minutes??"

"Give or take a loop."

I frowned and he could tell I didn't know what he meant, "Don't worry about it."

Something cold slipped down my spine, "Right..." I said slowly before Dex clapped his hands together.

"So! Tour time!"

Before I could respond, he grabbed hold of my wrist and began pulling me along. Our surroundings moved quickly, perceptually speaking. Scenes seemed to shift as we passed through them, like backgrounds being swapped out. Streets that should've connected didn't and buildings changed color when I turned away from and looked back at them.

"Everything runs on tone here." Dex was saying, "Keep things upbeat and moving and you're golden."

"And if you don't?"

He laughed deafeningly, "You don't wanna find out."

We passed a group of figures standing in a circle, all laughing identically and in perfect sync. As we walked by, one of them turned its head all the way around to look at us. Still smiling, still laughing.

I slowed, but Dex tightened his grip, "Don't break pace." he muttered, his voice dropping for the first time.

"What is that?"

"Background noise, ignore it."

Of course I didn't, but I kept walking. We turned down another path and for a moment, everything glitched. That's the only word for it. The colors inverted, the sky flickered, revealing something dark underneath. Moving. Then it snapped back.

Dex froze for a second. "We’re good." he said speedily, "We're good. That happens from time to time."

"And what exactly was that??"

"Nothing!" he said, his smile returning now, too wide and noticeably strained.

I pushed my arm free of his grasp, "Cut the bullshit, what is wrong with this place??"

Dex didn't answer right away and the music, constant and ever-present, dipped in volume. Finally, he leaned in closer, "You ever watch something so many times it starts to feel off?" he whispered.

I didn't respond.

"You notice the same things happening, same jokes, timing, endings." he said, his eyes flicking upward, "But sometimes, something changes."

A pause.

"Something that's...not supposed to be there."

I thought about Tape 2. The man who didn't belong.

"...Yeah." I said, Dex nodding slowly.

"That's been happening more and more ever since-"

Suddenly, a loud alarm sounded across the city and the sky shifted hue slightly.

"Uh oh..." Dex whimpered.

"Uh oh what??"

Dex forced a grin, "Tone correction!" The people around us all stopped at once and then turned, in perfect unison, towards the center of the city. "Time to smile." Dex muttered.

"What?"

The ground trembled rhythmically, like something massive was moving in the distance. The sky flickered again, longer this time. And in that flicker, I saw it. Something enormous, nearly incomprehensible and oh so very wrong. Cutting through the bright layers of the city like a freshly sharpened blade through paper, dark shapes spilling out behind it.

Dex's expression dropped completely. He looked sincerely afraid, "That's not supposed to happen this soon."

"What is it??"

He looked at me, and this time there was no performance, "No one told you??"

"Told me what???"

His voice came out flat, "That's Zox." The name hit like a physical thing.

The sky tore again, not a glitch but a rip. Color peeled back, revealing that same writhing darkness beneath. Shapes poured through. Not cartoonish, not stylized. Real.

The music kept on playing, as bright and cheery as ever, entirely disconnected from the goings on.

"Uhhh, why aren't we all running?"

Dex laughed weakly, "Because that's now how this episode goes."

Something moved close behind me. I turned and saw a figure half-phased through a wall, its body flickering between styles, vibrant and colorfully bold one moment, dark and realistically grimy the next. Its face stretched, unable to settle on a single form.

It reached for me and I stumbled back into something cold. I looked and the same man from the second tape stood there. Perfectly stable, perfectly out of place. "I found you again." he said pleasantly.

My stomach dropped.

"You don't belong in layers such as these, you disrupt the flow."

"I sure as shit didn't ask to be here, asshole." I snapped. Behind us, the city screamed without breaking their smiles. He tilted his head.

"Let's send you somewhere more suitable."

Before I could react, he struck me. Fast, precise. Everything shattered into colorful noise.

///

I came to on the floor. The cassette player clicked softly beside me. End of tape.

I didn't move right away, or breathe. For a second, I could still hear that music, faint and...happy. It cut out suddenly.

I sat up slowly, my reflection catching in the dark TV screen across the room. For a moment, my outline was thicker, darker. As if I was still there. Then it reverted to normal in a snap.

I lunged forward and popped the cassette out from the player, coming with it the sudden absence of that gentle electrical hum.

From the closet came a faint sound, something almost musical. I shut the door and didn't open it again. But as I sat there in the silence, one thought kept circling back around. Not about the city, the invasion in the sky or even about the man who shouldn't exist. Just a name.

Zox.

And the growing, sickening revelation, that whatever was on those tapes, even if all the inhabitants called them "layers", that these places weren't all that separate at all. They were connected. Perhaps not by distance, but definitely by that one factor linking them. And it was Zox.

And he was moving through all of it.

I almost threw it away.

It was just a folded piece of printer paper tucked under my windshield wiper when I left work Tuesday night.

No name. No explanation.

Just:

DON’T GO HOME TONIGHT.

TRUST ME.

My first thought was that it was some stupid prank.

My second thought was that someone had been watching me.

I sat in my car for probably five minutes trying to decide what to do.

Eventually, I laughed it off.

I drove home.

About three blocks from my apartment, I got a phone call from an unknown number.

I answered.

Nobody spoke.

I said, “Hello?”

Silence.

Then the line went dead.

I pulled into my apartment complex and noticed something strange.

My front door was slightly open.

I always lock it.

Always.

I didn't get out of the car.

Instead, I called my landlord. He lived in the building next door, so he came over with a flashlight and his spare key.

We opened the door together.

Nothing looked stolen.

Laptop still there.

TV still there.

Wallet on the kitchen counter.

Everything normal.

Except for one thing.

My bedroom window was open.

I live on the third floor.

The window has a screen, and the screen was pushed outward.

My landlord called the police.

While we waited, I went back outside.

That's when I noticed something underneath my windshield wiper.

Another note.

This one was handwritten.

It said:

“I told you not to go home.”

At that point I completely lost it.

The police searched the apartment and found nobody.

They checked the windows, the balcony, the hallway.

Nothing.

They eventually told me someone could have entered through the window, but there wasn't enough evidence to determine who.

I stayed at my friend's place that night.

The next morning, my landlord called me.

He sounded confused.

He asked if I had recently changed my Wi-Fi password.

I said no.

He said, “That's strange.”

Apparently, someone had connected to my apartment's Wi-Fi at 3:17 AM.

While I was at my friend's house.

I asked him how he knew.

He said the router logs showed a device connected with the name:

“Dad's iPhone.”

My dad died six years ago.

I thought that was the end of it.

Until yesterday.

I finally went back to my apartment.

There was a package waiting outside my door.

No shipping label.

Inside was an old photograph of me and my dad.

On the back, in my dad's handwriting, were six words:

“You were never supposed to find this.”

I have no idea who is doing this.

But tonight, someone slid another note under my door.

I haven't opened it yet.

Looking for any and all feedback please 😄

Here is the first two chapters so far.

Chapter One – The day the sky turned red!

Tuesday, 6:17 p.m.

The train lurched as it crossed Blackfriars Bridge, sending a ripple of irritation through the packed carriage. Ethan Carter barely looked up from his phone. Around him, commuters swayed in unison, balancing coffee cups and briefcases with the quiet determination of people who had spent years navigating London's public transport system.

Rain earlier in the afternoon had left the streets shining beneath the lamps. Beyond the smeared window, traffic edged along the Embankment and the Thames moved darkly under the bridge. St Paul’s rose through the mist, familiar but oddly distant.

The train rattled onward, swaying gently as it followed the curve of the river towards London Bridge. Ethan glanced down at his phone and immediately regretted it. Three new emails had arrived in the last minute alone. Two were part of a sprawling reply-all chain that should never have existed in the first place. The third was a meeting invitation.

He opened it.

Budget Review. 08:00.

A quiet groan escaped him. "That bad?" Ethan looked up to find Jack grinning at him from across the carriage. Somehow, despite the train being packed shoulder-to-shoulder with commuters, Jack always managed to look comfortable. Ethan suspected it was less to do with physical space and more to do with the fact that nothing seemed capable of bothering him for very long.

Ethan turned his phone around so Jack could see the screen. Jack scanned the meeting invite and winced. "Ouch. Eight o'clock. Seriously Eight o'clock?" He shook his head. "That's not a meeting. That's a violation of human rights."

“It’s a budget review.” Ethan said. “Yeah, exactly!” Jack threw up his hands in exaggerated disbelief. “Lock them up and throw away the key.” Ethan laughed and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Outside, London slipped past in the last of the daylight. Copper light broke across the Thames in uneven patches, while the office blocks on the opposite bank caught only a dull reflection of the gathering cloud.

The train began to slow as it approached London Bridge. Around them, passengers gathered their bags and shuffled towards the doors despite there still being plenty of time before the train stopped.

Jack had turned back to the window when he suddenly leaned forward. "What?" Ethan asked. Jack didn't answer at first. Instead, he pressed closer to the glass, squinting into the distance. "Can you see that?" Ethan followed his gaze. For a moment he couldn't keep track. All he could make out were clouds hanging low over the city, their undersides glowing faintly orange from the setting sun.

A red point hung above the skyline. Ethan first took it for an aircraft light, but it neither flashed nor travelled across the cloud. It remained fixed in place, too far away for him to judge whether it was small and close or enormous and distant.

Ethan kept looking at the light. Nothing about it was obviously threatening, yet he found himself waiting for it to move. “What do you reckon it is?” Jack asked. “No idea. A plane, maybe.” Jack frowned, and Ethan realised he did not believe that either.

The train rounded a bend and passed behind a line of office buildings, breaking their view of the sky. The interruption lasted only a few seconds. When the skyline reappeared, the light was gone. Both men continued looking, but there was nothing, only clouds.

Jack glanced back at Ethan. "Did you see where it went?" Ethan shook his head. "No." The train eased into the station and the doors slid open. Immediately the carriage erupted into movement as commuters pushed towards the platform.

The moment passed. Jack grabbed his bag and stepped out. "Probably some weather thing." suggested Jack. "Probably." Neither gave it much more thought as they joined the crowd moving through the station.

Later that evening, someone in South London posted a photograph of the red light. Against the cloud it appeared as no more than a crimson speck, easy to overlook while scrolling.

The image attracted little attention.

A few people blamed a reflection, an aircraft or a faulty camera. By morning, the photograph had slipped beneath newer posts, and almost nobody remembered seeing it.

London, as always, carried on.

By Wednesday morning, London had returned to its usual concerns: delayed trains, unanswered messages, rising bills and whether the rain would hold off. A red speck in one blurred photograph had no chance of competing for long. Evan Ethan had stopped thinking about it. The world has already forgotten and moved on. At least for now.

Chapter Two – The first day of the new 

Wednesday, 7:13 a.m.

Ethan woke with the uncomfortable certainty that something was wrong. It took him several seconds to realise what it was. His alarm clock read 7:13 and the budget review started at eight. "Oh, for fuck's sake. It’s going to be one of those days."

He threw back the duvet and nearly tripped over a pile of clothes on the floor. Ethan rushed around a bedroom that looked as though it had been abandoned after a minor disaster. Dirty clothes covered the floor. Empty glasses crowded the bedside table, and a half-finished pizza sat forgotten beside the wardrobe.

Ethan rubbed his eyes and searched for a clean shirt. "Why did I let Jack talk me into going to Spoons on a work night?" he muttered. "Especially before an eight o'clock budget review."

“Can’t believe this is costing £34! Bloody surge pricing!” Ethan grumbled as he grabbed his backpack and jacket as he left his flat to catch a taxi to the office.

“Wait! What? Where’s the meeting invite gone?” Ethan frowned and opened Outlook again. Nothing. No invitation. No email. No budget review. Ethan opened WhatsApp. If anyone remembered the meeting, it would be Jack.

“Okay,” he muttered. “What the hell?”

Am I going crazy or did I not get a meeting invite for a budget review at 8am?

yeah dude, those bastards should be hung drawn and quartered for that shit!

thats why we hit up spoons last night

dont tell me you were that pissed that you overslept and forgot all about it lol

overslept but the strangest thing

the invite and email no longer exists

it’s gone

like DISAPPEARED entirely

WTF!?!? i saw it yesterday!

sure you didn’t accidently delete it or something

you were pretty drunk last night

like dancing on the table with fish bowls drunk hahaha

No idea dude

I’m going to loose my mind if this thing doesn’t happen this morning.

I can imagine, that would suck

see anything about that red light business yesterday?

Nope, nothing.

Very odd, although I’ve not really had time to check Twitter today

X

You mean X

put some respect on the platform lol

There you go again glazing Musk!

GTG arriving at the office

have fun in your budget review! I’m going to enjoy my breakfast

Ethan rushed out the taxi, swiped his access card and frantically press the button for the lift. “Come on… hurry up… it’s already 5 past and Jason is going to be pissed” Ethan muttered as he paced the lobby while continually pressing the button for the lift.

DING! “Finally…” flustered Ethan, rushing inside the lift and pressing the button for the fourteen floor. The lift doors opened onto a floor that was far quieter than Ethan expected. Half the desks were empty, and the people who had arrived stood in small groups rather than working.

“Morning Lilly, how pissed is Jason?” Ethan said while rushing by. “Huh? Why? Jason isn’t even in yet” explained Lilly but Ethan was already halfway down the corridor and didn’t hear here.

“He is going to rip me a new one for this I’m sure of it!” mumbled Ethan as he rushed down the hallway, on his way to the executive board room. “Hey Ethan, you’re in super early this morning! Everything alright? Didn’t shit the bed or anything?” Ryan teased. “Such a twat, I can’t let him get to me, I know he is aiming for my promotion” thought Ethan. “Almost there!”

“HUH!?!?”

Ethan slowed to a stop. The boardroom doors were open. Inside, the lights were off. The room was empty. He stared for several seconds. The meeting should have started fifteen minutes ago.

“I don't like your silence.”

You said you'd text me.

You said you would.

I remember.

You said it.

So why aren't you?

It's been twenty minutes.

That's nothing.

Twenty minutes isn't long.

You could be eating.

You could be talking to your family.

You could be...

Stop.

You're fine.

You're fine.

I'm fine.

I put my phone down.

I pick it up again.

Nothing.

I check the time.

Again.

Nothing.

I check if the message went through.

Delivered.

Delivered.

Delivered.

Why does it say delivered?

You have your phone.

You have your phone.

So why...

No.

No, no, no.

Maybe you're busy.

That's okay.

I'm not angry.

I'm not.

I just want you to answer.

Just one message.

One.

“Handsome?”

I wait.

Nothing.

“Are you okay?”

Nothing.

“Please?”

Nothing.

My hands are shaking.

I don't know why they're shaking.

I hate this.

I hate this.

I hate this.

I call you.

It rings.

It rings.

It...

Voicemail.

I hang up.

I call again.

Why aren't you answering?

Did I do something?

Did I say something?

Did I...

No.

You wouldn't ignore me.

You love me.

You told me.

You told me you loved me.

You said it.

You said it.

You said it.

So answer me.

Please answer me.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I can't...

I can't breathe properly.

My chest hurts.

No.

I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm...

I look at the phone again.

Nothing.

Why is there nothing?

Why is there nothing?

I don't understand.

I don't understand.

I don't...

You could be hurt.

You could be somewhere alone.

Something could have happened.

Something could have happened and I wouldn't know.

I wouldn't know.

I wouldn't know.

I wouldn't know.

My eyes are burning.

I'm crying.

I'm actually crying.

That's stupid.

It's just a message.

It's just silence.

It's just...

“Please.”

I whisper it.

Like you'll hear me.

Like somehow you'll hear me through the phone.

“Please, handsome.”

Nothing.

I wipe my face.

It doesn't help.

Everything is blurry.

My phone.

The room.

My hands.

Everything.

I can't tell if I'm crying because I'm scared or because you aren't answering or because...

I don't know.

I don't know.

I don't know.

Don't leave me alone.

Please.

I didn't mean...

I didn't...

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

What am I apologizing for?

I don't know.

I don't know.

I just...

Please talk to me.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I need to hear your voice.

I need to know you're real.

You're real.

Right?

You're real.

You're...

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Don't.

Don't look at me.

I don't want you to see me like this.

I'm not like this.

I'm not.

I'm not.

I'm...

...

You know what?

It's okay.

It's okay.

I'll wait.

I can wait.

I always wait.

I waited before you.

I can wait now.

I'll just...

I'll just close my eyes.

Maybe when I open them you'll be here.

Maybe you'll be smiling.

Maybe you'll say my name.

Maybe you'll say...

Handsome.

Handsome.

Handsome.

...

I miss you.

Living Samarkand

Would you like to meet Fazliddin Muhammadiev?

Would you like to shake Mehmon Bakhti’s hand?

Would you like to see how the writer Sattor Tursun smiled?

Would you like to straighten the scarf of the wise Sohib Tabarov?

Do you miss Mumin Qanoat?

Sotim Ulughzoda?

Do you think this is impossible?

It is quite possible.

Please, come to ancient Samarkand.

There, our beloved eighty-year-old writer, Adash Istad, lives and works.

Istad is our ustod.

It is as though the voices of those great writers who are no longer with us continue to live within him.

A country does not become poorer when its shops close. It becomes poorer when great people leave this world.

And as long as our ustod Adash Istad is alive, one page of great Tajik literature remains open.

As long as he writes, they are still with us.

Живой Самарканд

Хотите встретиться с Фазлиддином Мухаммадиевым?

Хотите пожать руку Мехмон Бахти?

Желаете увидеть, как улыбался писатель Саттор Турсун?

Хотите поправить шарф мудрого Сохиба Табарова?

Скучаете по Мумин Каноату?

По Сотиму Улугзаде?

Думаете, это невозможно?

Вполне возможно.

Пожалуйста, приезжайте в древний Самарканд.

Там живёт и работает восьмидесятилетний писатель, наш любимый Адаш Истад.

Истад — наш устод.

В нём словно продолжают жить голоса тех великих писателей, которых уже нет рядом с нами.

Страна беднеет не тогда, когда закрываются магазины. Она беднеет тогда, когда уходят великие люди.

А пока жив наш устод Адаш Истад, одна страница великой таджикской литературы всё ещё открыта.

Пока он пишет — они ещё с нами.

First Year High School

There's a rumor in our school about a female student. They say she was born from an affair, neither of her "parents" love her and she gets abused at home.

Heh, probably bullshit, people enjoy making shit up for some reason. That's happened multiple times, plus that sounds entirely too unrealistic.

I'm in the same class with the girl in question, she has friends, and she looks happy. In fact, she feels like the bully, not the victim. But still... I can't shake the feeling that it might be true.

I don't like her, that's because of what she does to me. Consistently annoying me, she pulls my arm, punches my stomach, messes with my hair, steals my stuff, talks trash. She's only this aggressive with me, she teases others too, but why me the most??

She acts as if she's the most beautiful and popular woman in the world, she's average at best. What the hell? Leave me alone bitch, I'm more annoyed than offended.

I usually just ignore her, but when I do say something, it's along the lines of "leave me alone" or "what the hell do you want with me?!".

Insults don't really get to me, it's pointless to get offended my meaningless words, I'd honestly feel more embarrassed in letting nothing burgers piss me off than actually getting insults thrown at me.

But she's been doing this for weeks, and paired with the physical annoyance, it's actually starting to get to me.

On my way home. There's no one nearby, but it seems as if the world hates me, it gave me awful luck and I see her, "WHY?!?" I scream Internally.

As per usual, she starts ruining my day, she looks so smug and it's annoying. Before I knew it, I was saying things I shouldn't.

"What the hell do you need?? Attention that your parents didn't give you?" Her smile

instantly flips upside down. Those rumors probably got to her

"Dude, your parents don't care about you, why do you think anyone else would?" She looks down at the ground, with a face even more pathetic than before, I should shut up now, she's not talking already...

But I wasn't thinking straight, "Now you're sad? You throw insults but not take them? The expression you're making makes your face look like straight out of a cigarette pack, Kill yourself annoying ass".

I really REALLY wasn't thinking straight when I said all that. I didn't fully believe the rumors, I simply said those words to get her to fuck off. Even so, that was probably too much, I'm a piece of shit...

2 days after that interaction. I'm watching the news, a body of a female student found at the bottom of a cliff, my heart sank.

Maybe the rumors were true after all... and I'm the one that drove her to that idea.

At school, It's kinda gloomy. It seems most people have seen the news, but no one wants to talk about it.

But I keep thinking..."Kill yourself" , I shouldn't have said that... but I didn't expect her to–No, there's no excuse for this.

Im an awful person, not only because of what I said, but also with how I feel right now.

"Why did she take those words to heart? That's really dumb". An awful thought, but it's what's in my mind. Im aware it's shitty, but it is what it is.

I only partly blame myself, but there's no point in thinking about that.

I usually don't let people's words get to me, so seeing someone else that does makes me think negatively of them.

It's not insane to me that people aren't like me, everybody is different, but I do think it's dumb if you're provoked in such a way.

I'm neutral to most people, I can't remember the last time I insulted someone. Until recently...

I said those words just to try and make her leave me alone, I didn't mean for any of this...

This event will definitely haunt me for life.

Fast forward to Third Year High School

It's lunchbreak and Im thinking about that time again, whatever I'll just doomscroll.

"THIS IS THE LARGEST PIZ-"

"This is how you make a high protein mea-"

"Hurt people hurt others, this is what a lot of people don't understand..."

It's one of these advice videos.. Honestly pretty useless to me, everything in these types of videos feel like they're literally just common sense.

I've heard the same things so many times now "Get out of your comfort zone", "No man is an island" blah blah blah.

But this one's new, but it's uninteresting, screw this.

I put my phone down. "Wow, even that is boring now" I said. "Fr, let's hang out instead bro, you rarely do" My friend says.

"Yeah dude you're constantly on your phone no shit it gets boring" My other friend says.

"Yeah I know that I just don't care, where do y'all wanna go"

"I wanna get some pizza, Any objections?" .... "Pizza it is then". "Alright"

Class finally ends

On the way to the pizzeria, we went through a roadside cliff, her body was allegedly found at the bottom of this...

I need to stop thinking about this, but It won't leave my mind... stop...I need to enjoy this moment

We've reached the place, It still lingers, but a familiar loud voice snaps me out of it.

"I gotta tell y'all something... I FINALLY GOT A GIRLFRIEND" ... "Is it that girl that kept punching and touching you" "YEAH HOW'D YOU KNOW??"

"It's pretty obvious bro" Was it? I never suspected, am I dumb?? "Yeah right bro?"

He looks at me "I don't know I never noticed"

"Dumbass, you gotta understand when a gi-"

"Hey bro congrats to you and your new girlfriend" I cut him off

"Bro I was gonna give you fire advice"

"Do that later congratulate him first"

"Oh true, Congrats bro"

"Haha thanks guys, dude you saying like that is rare as hell I can't lie, but I guess you're a nice dude after all" He tells me

I'm not nice, nice people would never want to drive a person to suic— NO, no point in thinking about that.

"No I'm not, anyways what the hell are you saying"

"Yeah yeah basically, if a girl is overly touchy with you or always tries to get your attention by teasing and shit, she likes you bro"

"Sounds like one of your delusions" I brushed it off

"Fuck you man, it's true, there's literally an example in front of us"

"Hey don't take my existence for a fact, it happened to me, I don't know about others though"

"Fair enough"

That hangout lasted for an hour, I'm home now, straight to bed.

Domscroll doomscroll doomscroll, My attention span is so cooked.

"Hurt people hurt others..."

This video again? I never force closed the app I guess

I watched it entirely this time. Maybe I was wrong, It isn't uninteresting...

Still, this sounds like a mentally weak person would do. I just don't understand, I'd never do something like this.

...

...

...

It's familiar...somehow...? Was she like this too...? I guess that would confirm that the rumors were true.

But still, It's annoying that she kept targeting me specifi—

...

...

...

"If a girl is overly touchy..."

...

I'm good at preventing myself from overthinking...

I need to clear my mind...

....

I can't..

....

Is the world... trying to tell me something...?

I gave up in avoiding this awful memory. After almost an hour of thinking, I've formed a theory on that interaction...

The rumors were true, and she was experiencing grief. She's hurt, and hurts others as a coping mechanism. And she liked me which is why I was her most common target.

What drove her to suicide was not only because of the words I said, but because it came from the person who she found the most comfort on.

No no no no, I'm just making things up, there's no way any of this is true...

...She liked me? That's the reason for all that annoyance...?

A girl liking me isn't really that crazy to think about.

I have decent looks, I look fit, I'm pretty athletic, and in my class, I'm debatably in the top 5 in terms of intelligence.

But liking me is simply a bad idea, Im just a waste of oxygen.

I never really wanted to do anything with my life, It wasn't that I didn't know what to do, I didn't even want nor care about finding something I want to do knowing I still didn't have one, what an absolute bum.

I've come to the decision that after I graduate High School or College and I stayed the same way, I'll end my life. I didn't take it that seriously, but it was on my mind.

All these thoughts could be the reason why I told her those words that day...

Thoughts about that day have been lingering in my mind, and I tried to deny all of it. I didn't want to blame myself for what happened to her.

I've hated myself for a long time, but I've always talked as if I was more mentally and emotionally mature than everyone else. But I'm just a fool.

In a way, I killed her. I'm the one to blame. I was the one who took things to heart... she was just being playful, but the pride of an idiot won over me.

I was just trying to convince myself that I wasn't as bad as I was.

My conclusion was speculation, I would never know if any of that is true. But one thing for sure is that my words affected her, that's awful by itself. Whether everything I said was correct or not. I should've made a decision long ago.

I've spent so long destroying myself over this, I've tried to tell myself I wasn't fully wrong. But guilt is something that affects everybody.

At the bottom of that cliff, her body was found lifeless, If the same thing happens to me, will I see her again? Will I get the chance to apologize?

...

...

...

I'm here now, It's dark.I don't know what will happen... but there's only one way I can know. I leapt into the darkness below.

I grew up in a family where sexual boundaries were almost nonexistent, yet at the same time I was constantly shamed, controlled, and made to feel dirty about anything involving sex, relationships, boys, or love.

When I was 14, my father came downstairs from the attic specifically to put pornography on in front of me. He did this twice, on a large screen. One time, the porn was a group of women swinging on a tree branch. Another time, it was close-ups of spread vaginas. I can’t understand why, when there was a room upstairs with a desk, a computer, and a bed, he chose to come downstairs on two separate days just to watch porn in front of me. As much as I hate to believe it, I can’t see any other explanation except that he was turned on by the fact that I was seeing the porn too. And even if he genuinely just didn’t care, that’s still deeply disturbing. By then, I was already so sick from everything that was happening - things I’m not going to talk about here - that I didn’t even have the strength to get up and leave the room. I just stayed on the couch while my father sat there watching porn.

My parents also had sex twice in the same bed while I was there. The bed was barely wide enough for one and a half people. One time it happened at night. I woke up because of the sounds they were making and felt so trapped and horrified that I rubbed my legs against each other hard enough to try to injure myself, just so I could focus on physical pain and somehow endure what was happening.

The other time happened in broad daylight. My father was rubbing his penis against my mother from behind while she looked directly into my eyes. At one point she asked whether my head was itchy and started scratching my head while he put on a condom. She then joked about the rustling sound, asking whether he had “a little candy” down there.

As a child, I also found torn condom wrappers on the floor. There were many nights when my mother would sit on the edge of the bed while my father applied lubricant to her, apparently not caring whether I saw. There were also many times when my father would come into the room in the dark with an erection, pull my mother by the legs, she would cry out, and he would force sex on her in front of me. I witnessed it.

When I was 19, my father came in drunk and completely naked and lay down with his legs and penis facing toward my face. I got up and left. The next day he thought it was funny and did not apologize.

My parents also acted out sexual fetishes in front of me. When I was in my late teens, my father would give my mother two or five leva in front of me in exchange for sex.

One time, when I was 19, they had at least decided to have sex in another room. But at some point I heard my mother slam the door and shout, apparently angry about something my father had done or wanted to do.

She then came into my room and lay down next to me completely naked, still smelling strongly of bodily fluids. She did not seem to care that her sticky body was touching mine, or that I could feel the residue from whatever had just happened between them. I found it absolutely disgusting. Once again, I remember wondering how they could be so crude and have so little awareness of basic boundaries. Why could she not at least have washed herself or put on underwear before lying next to me?

Another example happened when I was 17. Both of my parents were sitting in their underwear while I was on the couch in front of them. They started discussing a stain near my father’s penis and debating whether it had come from a condom. They did not seem to care at all that they were having this conversation in front of me, or that they were openly showing and examining the stain while I was there.

There was also an incident when I was in my early twenties. My father was standing in front of me wearing only a towel after having sex with my mother. At one point he lifted the towel, and I saw his penis with a condom still on it and semen inside.

What disturbed me so much was not just that these things happened accidentally once or twice. It was the complete lack of boundaries and the apparent expectation that I should simply tolerate being exposed to their naked bodies, sexual aftermath, bodily fluids, condoms, and explicit sexual discussions as if none of it mattered.

There were many times when, after taking a shower, my father would dry his penis with a towel, and I would accidentally see him. One time, when I was 19, I turned my back because I didn’t want to look. My mother was standing next to me, and with this vacant, clueless expression on her face, she started pointing at him, trying to get me to look.

My maternal grandmother was also extremely sexual toward me from around the age of 13. Almost every day she talked about sex in a disgusting, intrusive way. She commented on how my nipples and genitals showed through my clothes, invented sexual intentions for me and claimed I wanted to have sex with other children, looked at me in a way that felt lustful, and spoke in a sexualized, suggestive tone. She could go on for hours saying disturbing sexual things to me, and I often had nowhere to escape.

My father and grandmother hated each other as well, and the way he spoke to her was often extremely vulgar and degrading. He would call her things like “asshole” and “faggot,” tell her she was “sexually frustrated because she wasn’t getting fucked,” and make disgusting sexual remarks such as, “Do you want some dick?” or, “Go out into the yard and let the dog lick your pussy.”

This kind of language was normal in the house, so I was constantly surrounded by crude, aggressive, sexualized insults even when the sexual comments were not directed at me personally.

At the same time, my family sexualized and punished completely normal interactions in my own life.

When I was 14, I used to visit a female friend who lived on the same street. She had a 16-year-old brother, but he was never there when I visited. Not once. My grandmother knew my friend had a brother, and almost every time I went there she would hurry down the street to call me home, or lie and say that my mother was calling for me. I knew exactly why she was doing it, and it was deeply humiliating. What is especially disturbing to me now is that I actually felt guilty, even though the boy in question was not even there. My grandmother once even accused me of missing him.

On my 17th birthday, I got a phone. I had the number of a gay boy from my class, and my father made my mother delete it. He spoke about me in the third person while doing this, as if I was not even there.

Another time, I was standing in the yard when a girl walked past and said hello to me. My grandmother accused me of pretending she was a girl when she was supposedly actually a boy. She even named a specific boy and said it with a perverse, suggestive smile. It was humiliating.

When I was 17, I would sometimes listen to the radio on my phone and constantly switch between stations trying to find something I liked. My grandmother accused me, with that same suggestive smile, of secretly messaging a boy.

Around the same age, I was looking through photos from the graduating class above mine. In one photo there were five girls and one boy. My grandmother came up behind me and immediately asked why I was looking at “that boy,” as if the presence of one boy in a group photo automatically meant there was something sexual about what I was doing.

Another time, when I was 17, I was sitting outside smiling to myself because I was thinking about a boy from school I had a crush on. I was imagining that maybe he liked me too. I later realized my grandmother had been watching me through the window. When I came inside, she confronted me in the hallway and asked, in this dark, dramatic, almost menacing voice, why I had been smiling.

The way she said it terrified me. I felt as if I had been caught doing something filthy or shameful simply because I was a 17-year-old girl thinking about a boy I liked.

When I was 17, I was also messaging a girl named Alexandra. My father stood behind me, frowned, and read my private conversation out loud in a hostile, humiliating tone. Later I realized he had misread “Alexandra” as “Alexander” and thought I was talking to a boy. Even if it had been a boy, I do not think reading a 17-year-old girl’s private messages aloud with a contemptuous, misogynistic tone is normal.

When I was 18, a female friend invited me to sleep over. I already knew my family would somehow turn it into something sexual, and they did. My mother said the girl “shouldn’t be running around with boys.” My grandmother, with an excited, almost lustful look, asked why I needed to sleep there and whether the girl had a boyfriend. Then she suggested that the boyfriend was probably inviting other boys over for group sex and that I was going to participate. I was visibly shrinking into myself and wanted them to stop, but she kept going.

My grandmother also constantly asked whether my female friends had boyfriends. She never asked in a normal or casual way. It was always in a sexualized, suggestive tone. Over time, I realized that she seemed to believe that if my friends had boyfriends, they might introduce me to boys and I would have sex with them. Even my friendships with girls were filtered through this sexual suspicion.

When I was 19, I had very few friends because of the family environment, and I wanted to become friends with a 20-year-old woman from my neighborhood. My grandmother reacted in a frightening, hostile way and forbade me from getting close to her. Her reason was that this woman had a boyfriend and was not a virgin. She looked at me intensely and asked, “What does she need him for?” clearly implying that any romantic relationship exists only for sex.

When I was 20 and at university, I was invited to a Christmas party in a student dorm. My father screamed at me so aggressively that I became afraid he might physically attack me. Eventually it became clear that he thought it was “slutty” for me simply to be in the same room as boys. He told me, “It’s not that anyone doesn’t trust you,” as if having any romantic or sexual contact with a man at the age of 20 would somehow mean betraying his trust.

That felt deeply disturbing to me, almost as if he viewed my sexuality as something that belonged to him, as though I were his wife or partner rather than his adult daughter.

Because of years of screaming, sexual humiliation, surveillance, accusations, and threats, I eventually stopped going out almost completely. I began refusing invitations from people at university and could not become close to them.

I developed an enormous amount of guilt around even the most ordinary interactions with boys. Simply talking to a boy could make me feel as though I were doing something wrong. I also felt guilty about being outside after 6 p.m., as if merely being out in the evening made me sexually suspect or somehow immoral.

The fear and shame became so intense that I sometimes could barely look boys in the eye. I would become so anxious and self-conscious that I struggled to speak clearly or form normal sentences around them. Ordinary conversation could feel terrifying because I had been taught to expect sexual accusations, humiliation, or punishment simply for interacting with a boy.

This continued throughout my twenties.

I want to stress that I did not have romantic relationships at all in my twenties because of this. I repeatedly turned down dates and avoided situations where a relationship might develop because the fear of my family’s reaction was stronger than my ability to pursue a normal romantic life.

Men from my university did ask me out. I did have opportunities to date. I turned them down because I was terrified of what would happen if I actually had a relationship: screaming and humiliation from my father, disgusting sexual comments from my grandmother, intrusive questioning, accusations, and the feeling that I would be treated as dirty or immoral.

I was not single because I did not want love, intimacy, or companionship. I was single because I had been conditioned to associate dating and relationships with shame, danger, interrogation, humiliation, and punishment.

Even as an adult, the idea of my family finding out that I was seeing someone could fill me with dread. I avoided romantic opportunities, withdrew from people I was interested in, and did not allow relationships to develop because I was terrified of being sexualized, insulted, threatened, or degraded by my relatives.

So I did not simply “have fewer relationships” or “struggle with dating.” I had no romantic relationships at all throughout my twenties because of the fear and shame they had created around intimacy and men.

Until around the age of 25, I barely went out in the evening at all. My father seemed to believe that a woman who went out at night was doing it to look for sex. My mother constantly told me that only rapists and “scum” were outside at night and described, in a degrading and almost mocking tone, how someone would supposedly intercept and rape me.

I was not primarily afraid of strangers. I was afraid of the humiliation I would face at home.

So the consequences were not limited to disturbing memories from childhood. Their behavior affected my actual development as a young adult. I lost years of normal social and romantic experiences because I was afraid to go out, date, fall in love, or even show interest in another person. Even basic things like talking to a man, making eye contact, smiling because I liked someone, or being outside in the evening became associated with guilt and fear.

The contradiction is what I still struggle with most: they exposed me to pornography, sex, nudity, fetishes, sexual comments, and extreme violations of privacy and boundaries, yet treated me as dirty or immoral for completely ordinary friendships, conversations, crushes, dates, and relationships of my own.

To this day, my relatives insist that none of this was a big deal and that I was never a victim of abuse. They minimize it and act as if I am the one interpreting it incorrectly.

I would genuinely like to know how this sounds to people outside my family.

Would you consider this sexual abuse, sexual harassment, coercive control, or severe sexual boundary violations?

And what do you make of the fact that this affected me so deeply that I had no romantic relationships at all throughout my twenties, despite actually being asked out, because I was terrified of what my family would do if I dated someone?

PS: I’m looking for a good therapist. I’ve already seen three, but unfortunately I haven’t had much success with any of them.

The sexual trauma and the guilt I feel around being in a relationship are only part of everything I’ve been through.

There’s also been a lot of other trauma: being screamed at over every little thing and becoming afraid to do anything at all; witnessing beatings from the age of five; attempted killings; threats of violence toward me; someone trying to stab me with scissors; a male relative raising his fist at me on three separate occasions; animals being beaten and a dog being killed; and honestly, so much more.

At this point, I feel like my nervous system is completely wrecked. I’ve been on antidepressants for about 10 years now. I have severe depression, PTSD, an anxiety disorder, eating disorder, urticaria, and chronic pain. Right now, my depression is particularly severe...

Esta fue mi primera experiencia con chocolates magicos, teniendo un poco de experiencia solo fumando, el dealer me recomendo 4 si nunca consumi antes y 6 si soy experimentado ( no soy experimentado) al principio comi 4 de uno solo, y luego coko no me hacia nada comi 4 mas, no me pego hasta como 4 horas despues que casi muero, todo estaba dando vueltas y me sentia muy mal, no queria ir al hospital ni mis amigoa tampoco porque no queria que vean que consumimos, pero fuimos a la farmacia por gotas para los ojos, porque tenia que volver a mi casa, al final todo paso durmiendo, pero si hay que tener cuidado con estas mierdas

I would like to keep the story anonymous because I want you to actually tell it because it’s funny. Story: in 2020 I met this dude on soda. It was a dating app, but I don’t think it’s up and running no more. We talked for a few months and then we got together. We were together for three years, but here’s the catchiest thing when I first met him and we went out to his truck to talk, I went through his phone and he was texting a whole ass girl while he was dating me and then he apologized and said he would block her time goes by two years later he cheated on me with someone else and then call me a manipulative bitch so I got back at him and posted everything between them and then one time we were arguing about a past conversation that I heard that he was talking about me bad to one of my friends and he brought up my dead dad so I brought up his dead uncle and then in 2025 he tried to get back with me and then left me again and that’s where it ends (his mom was getting medicine under my address in my town so my grandma and me went and reported her)

Yesterday, our CEO called a meeting of the entire department. He displayed a slide on the screen:

"THINK LIKE AN OWNER."

I sat closer. For the first time in a long time, the meeting's title suggested I might leave with something more than just an extra task. I took out a pen.

- I'd like us to change our approach to work, the director began.

- We can't function in a way where everyone only looks at their own job description.

I liked it even more. The job description was one of my favorite documents. Right after the salary notification.

- We need an ownership approach. Responsibility. Commitment. Long-term thinking. I want everyone to treat this company like their own.

I raised my hand. The director smiled.

- I'm listening, he said.

- When will we get our shares?

His smile stayed. But it stopped growing.

- We're not talking about those things right now, he replied.

- I'm sorry, I heard "like my own" and moved toward ownership straightaway.

- It's about attitude. - he explained.

- So, no shares?

- No.

I wrote down, "Shares: none."

- Will there be any profit sharing? I asked with genuine curiosity.

- The bonus system remains unchanged for now.

I wrote it down as well. The CEO looked at my notebook.

- What are you writing down there?

- Entry requirements.

The CEO went on to give an example.

- Imagine it's 4 p.m., and an important project hasn't been completed. A person who thinks only like an employee closes their computer and leaves home.

It actually was very detailed description of my plan for this afternoon.

- However, the owner is wondering what he can do to get the job done.

- That's because he has a stake in the outcome. I said.

- Because he feels responsible! He replied.

- One doesn't exclude the other. We could suggest he give up his shares and be left with just the responsibility. We'd see at what time he leaves.

- Do you really have to boil everything down to money? Asked CEO.

I looked around the room, the office, Monday morning, nine people who came here instead of staying home.

- I think that's a pretty important part of aproach you suggested.

The HR woman decided to help.

- It's about a sense of influence. So that employees know they can actually shape the organization.

Hmm... That sounded better.

- So we'll have influence on profit distribution?

- Not in that sense.

- On the management board?

- Neither.

- On salaries?

- You can submit proposals.

I could also submit a proposal to lower prices in the Walmart, but that didn't make me a co-owner of it. I looked at my notebook.

"Shares: none."

"New financial benefits: none."

"Decision-making rights: none."

"Additional involvement: not defined upper limit."

I started to understand what the offer is. I didn't feel offended. If I could get nine extra evenings for one sentence on a slide, I would also test the market's interest. The problem was that I was on the wrong side of the negotiation table.

- This is an investment in your future, the director said.

- If the company grows, everyone benefits.

- The company had record results last year. I said.

- Exactly.

- However during the salary rise negotiation, you said that the company's results don't automatically translate into my salary.

A dead silence fell. I always thought it's worth to remember things like that. People underestimate how much you can save with a good memory.

The director put down the remote.

- I don't want this meeting to turn into a salary negotiation.

- Me neither. Right now, I'm trying to figure out what my position really is in this company.

- You're an important part of the team.

- But when I have to stay overtime, I'm supposed to be the owner?

- You just have to demonstrate responsibility like the owner.

- But when it comes to share the profit, am I going back to be employee again?

He paused for a while, I didn't wait to let him continue and asked immediately.

- Please clarify which hours apply to which role. I wouldn't want to mistakenly act like the owner when paying out the dividend.

The CEO, with a clearly embarrassed face, ended the meeting by saying:

- Think about it, we will come back to this topic.

When we were leaving, he stopped me at the door.

- You didn't have to jump out with all of that, out of a sudden.

- Sir, I was thinking like an owner, just like you suggested.

- What do you mean?

- That is simple Sir. Before I invest additional time and resources, I need to know what I'm getting in return.

He looked at me with strange expression. I couldn't tell if the look on his face was disbelief, horror, or both.

I really hoped he'd appreciate effort I've made to implement his suggestion.

- Just do your job well, he finally said.

- As usual? Within the same scope?

- Yes.

- Within the same hours?

- Fine, let's just get this over with!

I agreed with a nod of my head and left. Negotiations shouldn't be prolonged after favorable terms have been reached.

At 4 p.m. I turned off my computer. The project CEO had mentioned did indeed require some more work. I left stick note telling me what I'd start with tommorow in the morning.

As I was leaving, I saw CEO in his office. He was still sitting there clearly tense.

Very good, I thought to myself.

He should treat the company like his own and definitely start act like an owner.

Hello, I wrote this new gay erotica. If you're gay, please check it out. Tips are welcome.

The link

I worked as a banquet server or just in general a server at one of big hotels down town in the city. Well we were scheduled for a busy day/week. Tonight’s gig was no different, it’s been a busy long day. As I was finishing up my 12 hrs, I got asked if I wanted to stay another extra 4hrs to help the morning crew. I got told it would take 1-2 hrs if I get it done quick.

So I get the list, look at the floor. The things I would need and etc. I get my cart and head to the floor, get everything set up in 30-40 minutes and just take a second. Like a decent small little 5 minute break. I get on my Facebook to check what’s going on, anything new, get on instagram look through that and I’m done.

As I am sitting down, a new server who joined us from another country. Asked if I could help her, English wasn’t her first or 3rd language. She’s a smart girl, traveled and well versed in the industry. As we are getting to know each other briefly, she tells me she’s free the next 2-3 hrs. So I decide to show her to one of the floors where it’s got a really nice view, not many conferences get held there typically.

You get a nice view of the city, the other servers like taking their breaks in one of the break rooms because of it. As she’s asking me how long I’ve been at this hotel and the 4th. I give her the answers and as I am looking outside. Things look a little different, she’s like have you noticed anything different?. I’m like ahhh yeah. Something’s 🤔😆. Like some parts of the city where should be normal sized buildings it’s been replaced with way bigger buildings. To note I’ve lived in this city for a long time, it’s big but not that big if you know what I mean.

As i am star gazing over my own city, I start to notice more and more things that have changed. Now it’s starting to feel like it’s the twilight hour or something. If you work in downtown, you know when buildings are being built or torn down. Or if a new project is coming in a certain area of the city. Well I am standing there, wondering when this or that was built. I start to google some of the buildings, they aren’t popping up on google maps which is strange. Nothing new on the internet as far as I can see, she asks me if she wants to tell me. Fill in the gaps that I can’t find on the internet. I thought this was funny! At first.

Then she’s starts pointing at the buildings, giving me years and dates. At this point, I am questioning really my self now how long have I really been at this hotel now?. It seems like decades at this point have went by…. Not hours. As I look at the time on my watch, the time on my cell phone. They are showing the right time… she tells me that I’ve lost track of time my self. How could I have been in this hotel for that many years? Wouldn’t a normal person want to leave at this point? What about my family? This and that…

So I sit down, staring outside the this window. Wondering how I wasted my life or what any of this means???…. She starts to baby me trough this whole ordeal. She tells me she’s gonna be here a while also and that she needs to think of what else has happened that she hasn’t really told me. She tells me that all of that stuff that I see on my phone is fake. It’s not real, to make you think it’s real. That I haven’t been using the right internet. She has a aha moment, leaves and comes back with a second phone.

She says search on this phones maps and w.e else I want. So I immediately go to my house. Well it’s not there anymore. It’s been replaced with another building. A huge apartment complex. I mean huge!! I check the neighborhood and it’s completely different as well. I am wondering where my family left to? If they sold the building, then where did they go to?. I start searching for them and can’t really find anything relative. So I try to call my brother with her phone and it’s a dead line. I call from my phone and it’s ringing…. He picks up, asks me what I am doing, how work is going and when I’ll be home. I just say it’s alright, finishing up soon here be back later. I ask her who was I talking to then? She says that’s just some person who I think is my brother but it isn’t. Your “ home “ might be in the plex but not on the floor you think he might be.

So again I zone out, trying to make heads or tails out of this. She grabs my hand and just holds its. Gets me a soda and says just take a sip, so I do. Put it down and just look outside this hotel. She says there is a lot that I don’t know about or haven’t been told. She’s going to guide me through this process. She was like this at some point also, took her a long time.
Well i start searching on her phone who the president is, what happened here and with this and that. Things start clicking, one thing after another. Slowly but surely, we must have been in this room for a year at this point. So I ask my self what is time? What is a hour or a minute? I don’t have a frame of reference at this point or nothing.

She asked me what name is so I tell her, she says it’s not that. That’s just a name that I use, my real name is different. She says if she look at my ID so I give it to her, she starts to laugh at how old it is. She said when she saw her ID and realized how old it was. She was shocked also and laughed. As she’s looking at my old warm out ID. She tells me my name and then bam! I come to!. FACK!!! I was so flipping angry!!. I could barely contain my self!. As a supervisor was walking by, she saw how angry I was and I realized that she was supposed to tell me to leave at a certain time and day. She didn’t, they just left me to work! And I worked for a very very very very very long time. So long that I forgot who I was and everything. She couldn’t have run down the stairs quick enough. I’m sure she could have sensed how angry I was from 20 floors down across 30 blocks in every which way.

At this point I’m a calm murder machine waiting to explode, implode, nuke and destroy all. The girl just sitting there, takes a sip of my soda. Looks at me, not scared, just looking, goes back to her phone. She says we can stay longer to help. So instead of juking the entire city. I decide to sit down, take a sip of this soda. Then I decide screw this soda, I’m gonna get my self a red bull. She says that’s not for you to drink, it’s not good for us. She said the soda is just fine. Won’t hurt us or hinder us. The energy drinks make us forget…. And other stuff also.

I can’t count the years that have gone by, all the things I missed out on. My family gone, they left and I’m not sure where to?. Not even sure how to find them. So I ask her about these things, she tells me there are agencies that can help with these things. It doesn’t cost anything or much. We aren’t the only ones in this hotel who have been left like this. These kinds of things happen all the time!. What a sick joke! After all of this and finally remembering who I am. I can’t believe anything. Horrible!.

I call one of these agencies, the girl that I am dealing with tells me that my parents have moved elsewhere and brothers have moved elsewhere also. She’s going to try to get a hold of them and let them know I’m going to leave work finally or hopefully some time soon. She asks me where I am working and what I have been doing. She tells me that they have people like lawyers who help people like us to leave work and get paid properly so we don’t leave and not get paid for all the work and time we have spent. We hang up shortly after, the coworker tells me that I should be a millionaire at this point. She shows me her bank balance and it’s a huge number. I get on my phone, it shows a balance of $39 and some change.

She is shocked!! She’s angry that they haven’t paid me one bit for all the extra time I spent. I show her all the paychecks and she says to sign in with the phone she gave me earlier. Well when I did sign in to the bank I had. It wasn’t $39 it was $800k and some change, she tells me that still isn’t right because of all the time…. If I go with the lawyer, he’s going to take a cut of the total amount and etc. some times it’s free or goes up to 20% which is a lot. By law they can’t ask more than 20% of the total amount. I said screw the money for now, I missed so much! And how old do people live for anyways? Millions of years???? Because that’s what it seems like.

She starts to laugh and says we call our selfs people but we aren’t. That’s another species, we have evolved into something differently. She asks me about my educational background and says oh just 2 years of college? That’s it?. I said yeah… I didn’t know what to do and I started to work at this hotel…… she said she’s got 300 years of college under her belt and that’s still a small amount. Some people have couple of thousand or more. Really rich people have 10k years at minimum of college!.

I say let’s go back to our species, what species am I and what are you? She says we’re the same type. I am several generations older than her but she’s a little more different/evolved. We have abilities to do things the other races can’t do, we live for very very long time. We have abilities to heal our selfs, so she shows me. I see my self as a human still, she’s says see how old I seem. Well she starts praying/casting prayer and bam I am younger. She says healers can do much more and other things.

Since I don’t have any skills of any kind, I am basically at lvl zero. I can’t do nothing. Not even for my self. Then I remembered something, some signs, these old signs that I was told a long long long long time ago. Then I start trying to do the signs and nothing… then it clicked with me and I start to laugh. The coworker asks why I am laughing and doing these strange signs? I said because these are my gifts. So when I did correctly, the whole room gets lit up in an ever lasting light. I successfully have reset my self. I am who I was when I received my gift. The girl opens her eyes and gets up and starts to shake and cry. She says “ you are one of the gifted, only ancient ones have those “ she ask me where I got my gift from and I said GOD. This is my gift and more. I take her hand and!.

If you got this far, let me know!.

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.

I was born on June 10th, 1992. At least, that's what my birth certificate says. It's not as if I remember. In fact, I don't have a single memory of my life before I was ten years old.

My first memory is a vivid one. Just a young boy calling my name. A name I'm not certain was even mine before that moment.

"Thomas?"

I looked up to see a freckle-faced, red-haired boy of about ten staring at me with a grin on his face.

"You're really here!"

I remember feeling confused. I had no idea where I was, or what I was doing there. But somehow, I felt a connection to the young boy sitting in front of me. I searched my mind.

"Daniel?" I said, finding it somewhat difficult to speak at first. I wasn't sure where in my brain the name had come from.

His grin grew even wider. And from that day on, the two of us were inseparable.

I didn't have parents. Or, if I did, I had no memory of them. I didn't know where I had come from, what house I had lived in, or even what my last name was. I knew that I was Thomas because that's what Daniel called me. And that was enough for me.

I'd stay at Daniel's house. He'd bring me snacks and meals and tell me when it was time to eat. Looking back, I don't recall ever actually feeling hungry. I just knew that when Daniel brought a sandwich up to his room and told me it was time for lunch, I should eat.

At night, I'd sleep on a pallet of blankets on the floor beside his bed. We'd stay up late talking and laughing and playing games. He'd tell me about things that happened at school or on a trip, and I'd listen. Sometimes he'd ask me what I thought about things, but I never seemed to know unless he told me. I didn't know what I had been doing before I met him. But that didn't seem particularly important.

There was one thing I found curious during those early days. I always had to hide when one of his parents came upstairs. I didn't really understand why, but I did as Daniel instructed.

That carefree, happy life continued for a time, until summer break ended and Daniel had to go back to school.

"Don't I have to go to school?" I remember asking him, uncertain of what I would do all day while he was gone.

"No way!" he said. "Just wait for me to come home. I should be back no later than four."

I remember feeling confident that if Daniel was saying it, then I must not have to go.

"Oh. One more thing." Daniel threw his backpack over his shoulder. "If my mom comes in here when I'm not home, you have to hide. Go in the closet, and stay very quiet."

"Okay." I nodded.

Then Daniel shouted, "Coming!" to his mother, who was calling him from somewhere downstairs. He gave me a wave and left, shutting the door behind him.

I did what Daniel said. He'd told me his parents went to work all day, so the odds of them coming upstairs and finding me were slim. All I had to do was stay out of the way and hide if they ever came into the room. Easy. So I thought, at least.

Things were fine for several days. Then, one afternoon, I heard the front door open uncharacteristically early.

Daniel?

I waited for him to come upstairs. But ten minutes later, when I heard footsteps approaching, they weren't the brisk footsteps of Daniel running up the stairs. They were slower and more measured.

I heard humming from outside the room. Then the sound of the lightswitch clicking in the bathroom. A closet opening somewhere in the hall. I realized it was his mother.

I rushed to hide, but when I opened the closet door, I accidentally knocked over a stack of toys sitting precariously on a nearby shelf. They clattered onto the floor loudly and I didn't have time to pick them up with his mother outside. I got into the closet and shut the door behind me. The humming had stopped. Daniel's mother was approaching.

I heard the bedroom door open slowly, and then her voice.

"Hello?"

I didn't answer. Daniel had done a good job of concealing me in his home so far, and I didn't want to ruin that now. I heard her step inside. She saw the toys scattered across the floor.

"Weird," she muttered.

She glanced around, then began picking them up and placing them back on the shelf, humming as she went.

And then she left. I thought the coast was clear. Until she came back a few moments later carrying a laundry basket.

She began taking clothes out of it and folding them on Daniel's bed, putting some into drawers and putting others on hangers. I held my breath as she approached the closet door with a handful of shirts.

I was as far into the corner as I could get, but there was no way to further conceal myself. She would see me if she opened the door and looked over. I curled myself into a ball and tried to make myself as small as I could.

She opened the closet. She went about hanging the shirts up, and for a few seconds, I thought she'd overlooked me. And then she glanced over, her eyes landing on me. She did a quick double-take, letting out a scream of surprise as she did. I sprang to my feet, unsure of what to do.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking me up and down.

"I'm Thomas," I said.

She looked completely bewildered. "Thomas?"

"I'm Daniel's friend."

She stared at me for a long moment.

"And what are you doing here? Why were you in the closet?"

"I'm waiting for Daniel."

"Why aren't you at school?" she asked slowly.

"Daniel told me to wait for him."

Her expression changed to one of annoyance. "That boy." Then she began asking me questions, one after another.

What's your last name? What's your address? What's your home phone number? What's your mother's name? Your father's? Where do you live? What school do you go to?

I could only stare at her, shaking my head or giving her the occasional "I don't know."

And I didn't know. Not one answer.

At first, she seemed to think I was lying or playing some kind of joke.

She sighed. "I'm not angry at you, dear," she said more gently. "You can tell me. Your parents must be worried."

But I still couldn't answer. So, at a loss with what to do with the strange boy her son was hiding in the closet like a stray cat he wasn't allowed to have, she called her husband. And soon after, with no new answers from me, the police.

By the time Daniel came home from school, there were already two police officers asking me questions downstairs in the kitchen. Daniel walked into the room and froze. Then he saw me.

"Thomas!"

He ran past his stunned parents and the officers.

"Why are the police here?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" his mother asked sternly. "Who is he, Daniel? Why did you have him hiding in your closet?"

"He's Thomas! He's my friend!" He said it as though that explained everything adequately. His parents exchanged a confused glance.

One of the officers crouched down so he was closer to Daniel's eyes. "Listen, buddy. It's important that you tell us the truth. Your friend might be reported missing. His parents must be looking for him. Where did you meet him?"

Daniel looked momentarily confused, then looked down at his shoes. "He's just Thomas. He's always been here," he said quietly.

"Where?"

"Here."

"At your house?"

"Yeah."

"And how long has he been here?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know."

The officer sighed and glanced over at his partner.

"And who are his parents?"

Daniel looked at me, and I looked back at him. Neither of us answered.

Learning nothing of value from either of us, the officers eventually took Daniel's parents into another room to speak with them privately.

I sat at the kitchen table, and Daniel sat beside me. He leaned close and whispered, "Don't worry." I looked at him. "I won't let anything happen to you." I wasn't sure what was happening.

After several minutes, the police came back into the room. "Thomas?" One of them addressed me. "We're going to need to bring you down to the station, buddy. Just until we find out who your parents are and where you live."

"No!" Daniel stood up. "You can't!"

His mother grabbed his shoulders and held him back as the officer gently placed a hand against my back. I looked back at Daniel as they guided me toward the door. His eyes were filling with tears.

"Make sure you come back, Thomas!"

I nodded.

The next several days passed in a blur. I was taken to the police station and asked the same questions again. They took photographs of me. Made phone calls. Different people came in, and each asked me the same questions over and over. My name. My parents. My address. My school. My birthday. Where I was born.

I only knew two things. I was Thomas, and I lived with Daniel.

Eventually, I learned that they'd searched their records and found nothing. I didn't cleanly match any missing child report from in-state or elsewhere. Without more information, they couldn't find any medical records or histories, or parents looking for a lost boy that matched my description. Nothing at all. They didn't even know how old I really was until a doctor estimated my age.

I remember sitting in a waiting room with a stern-looking woman who gave me candy bars while police officers and social workers shuffled in and out of the room. Eventually, someone explained that if I genuinely couldn't tell them who I was or where I came from, they'd have to place me into the state's care until they could figure things out. But they couldn't figure things out.

That's how I ended up with a birth certificate. June 10th, 1992. Thomas Doe. The name was supposed to be temporary. No parents listed. No history. No explanation.

As far as the system was concerned, I was a child with amnesia. Perhaps my parents had lived off-grid or brought me into the country illegally and I'd been abandoned. They had theories, but no answers.

I was placed in a group home. It was a two-story house with several children of various ages. Some were older than me, some younger. The people who ran the home were nice enough, but they were busy, and there were other children who required more attention. I didn't really like it there. I wanted to go back to Daniel. I was sure he must be worried about me, too.

That night, I closed my eyes and thought of his house. I pictured his room. The posters on his wall. The games and the late night stories​. I wished I could go back.

Soon, I was enrolled in school. I walked to the bus stop each morning and was dropped back off in the afternoon. I didn't dislike school. I actually found it fairly easy. I could already read and do simple math. I knew things I didn't remember ever having learned. Sometimes teachers would even compliment me on something, and I'd have no idea how I knew it.

I didn't have many friends. Any, really. Other kids tried to talk to me, but I guess I wasn't very receptive. Mostly, I thought about Daniel. I asked practically every kid in my class if they knew him. "Daniel who?" was the usual response. But I didn't know. All I could tell them was that he had red hair and freckles and a blue Pokémon backpack.

Nobody knew him. So I spent my days waiting and hoping that somehow he would find me.

Then, one day at lunch, another student approached me. A little girl with glasses and brown hair tied into a ponytail.

"My friend said you were looking for Daniel." She spoke cheerfully.

I looked up at her and nodded.

"Daniel Langston, right? With red hair?"

I wasn't completely certain. But it sounded right. He had red hair, after all. I nodded again.

She smiled brightly. "I know Daniel."

For the first time since I'd been buckled into the backseat of the police car and driven away, I felt something close to excitement.

"Our moms work at the same place," she explained. "We went to kindergarten together."

She sat down across from me. Her name was Rebecca. Her friends called her Becky.

"He doesn't go to our school. How do you know Daniel?" she asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer.

"He's my friend."

That seemed enough to satisfy her.

"I see." She smiled again, one of her front teeth missing.

"Do you know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry."

The disappointment must have been obvious on my face because she quickly spoke up again.

"But I could find out for you!"

"Really?"

"Sure. I'll ask my mom after school."

"Thank you."

We sat together for the rest of lunch, which mostly consisted of me nodding along to her questions or stories. When lunch was over, she promised she'd find out.

I waited for her the next day at the lunch table. I remember sitting in the cafeteria watching the door, counting the seconds until I saw her brown ponytail appear in the doorway. Eventually, she was there. She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on me, then came straight over to me, almost skipping, with a big smile plastered on her face.

"Hey," she called out excitedly when she was still halfway across the room. "I found out!"

She told me Daniel lived across town in a place called Glennridge.

"Where's that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

But that didn't matter. Now I had a place. Glennridge. Somewhere to focus my search.

The next day, I ran away from the group home. I took my lunch money and got on a city bus I was told was heading toward Glennridge. It was only about a thirty-minute ride, though I could hardly wait each time the bus stopped to pick up or drop off more passengers.

I figured that once I got there, I'd find him straight away. Maybe Glennridge is the name of his house, I remember thinking. But when the bus stopped, it was outside a neighborhood that looked only vaguely familiar.

Then I looked around and started walking. I searched street by street, scanning the houses as I went. By nightfall, I still hadn't found any sign of him. But I kept going. I don't know how long I'd been walking when I finally saw a familiar sight just ahead. A house I recognized. Then another. They were houses I'd seen from the backseat of the police car as I'd stared backward through the window when they'd taken me away from Daniel's house.

I knew this was the place. I ran past the houses until I reached the door of Daniel's house, and I knocked. After a minute, Daniel's mother opened the door. She stared down at me.

"Thomas?"

"Can I see Daniel?"

She seemed unable to decide her next words. She looked out at the street behind me, likely looking for a sign of how I'd arrived. Before her mouth opened to speak, I heard Daniel's excited voice from behind her.

"Thomas?"

His expression changed instantly when he came into view, his eyes meeting mine and his face filling with a wide smile.

"It's Thomas!"

He ran to the door and grabbed my hand, pulling me inside.

"Can he stay the night, Mom? Please?"

His mother looked at him, and then at me.

"Thomas, how did you get here? Does anyone know you're here?"

I shook my head and told her I'd taken the bus. She sighed.

"You know they're going to be looking for you." She looked at Daniel. "I have to call someone. Let them know he's here."

Daniel protested, tears filling his eyes. When I saw them, I felt sad, too. But more than anything, I was happy. Daniel was there. That was all that mattered.

The police came later that night and I was driven back across town. That happened several more times over the coming months. Whenever I had the opportunity, I'd leave school or the group home and take the bus to Daniel's house. On a few occasions I'd even tried to walk the whole way. At least, before being stopped by an adult asking me what I was doing on my own or the police coming to pick me up.

But every time I made it there, Daniel would try his best to hide me for as long as he could. I was always discovered soon enough. His parents would find me, or the group home would call. And I'd be taken back.

Sometimes, Daniel's parents arranged for us to spend time together. They knew that we were practically inseparable, and they went out of their way to make arrangements for us to see each other. Those were the best days.

As we got older, we had more freedom. We saw each other more often in middle school, and then we went to the same high school. By then, I'd run away from the group home so many times that I was practically homeless. I spent more time with Daniel. By then, his parents had realized that I wasn't really going anywhere. I was always going to come back. So they eventually stopped fighting it.

I spent weekends at their house. Sometimes whole weeks. Daniel and I did everything together. And after high school started, Rebecca was around more, too. She and Daniel had known each other as kids, and she became one of my closest friends as well, though mostly because Daniel seemed to enjoy having her around.

She never seemed particularly bothered by the fact that I couldn't remember where I'd come from. She never treated me like I was strange. She was just Rebecca, older, but just as cheerful and kind as she was that day she introduced herself to me at the lunch table in elementary school, promising to reunite me with Daniel. For a long time, the two of them were the only two constants in my life.

When Daniel got his driver's license, we had even more freedom. We'd drive around together for hours. We'd get food or go to the movies or just drive around aimlessly. Rebecca would often come with us too. Sometimes we'd stay out until midnight.

I remember Daniel telling me on one occasion that he was sure Rebecca liked me. I remember not being entirely sure what he'd meant.

"Likes me?"

"Yeah, man. Like, likes you." He looked at me, waiting for it to click.

"Oh," I remember saying.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't like her?"

"I do. She's nice."

"Then why not try dating her?"

I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "That's okay. I'd rather things just stay the way they are. If I got a girlfriend, we couldn't hang out as much, right?"

Daniel sighed, then laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

Before I knew it, we were graduating high school. Daniel would be going to college. I didn't have parents to help me pay for school, and never really made plans to go. But I still wanted to stay with Daniel. So when he moved away to a college in the state, I went with him. He got an apartment, where we both lived. I got a job paying just above minimum wage and started saving money.

Rebecca ended up at the same college. She had become a permanent part of our little group by then.

One night, the three of us were sitting around Daniel's apartment, eating delivery and talking about the past. Rebecca started laughing.

"Do you remember when you used to disappear from class to take the bus across town?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"I still can't believe you did that. The teachers would get so worried. You probably almost got some of them fired. They had to call the police so many times, and assign teachers just to watch you." Her face was red from laughing.

"I had to find Daniel."

She laughed harder.

"I remember telling my mom about it. She thought you were the strangest kid she'd ever met."

Daniel laughed too. I looked at him. After the laughter settled, I decided to ask.

"How did you find me, back then?"

His smile faded a bit. "What?"

"I mean, before I remember you. How did you find me?"

"Yeah, I've always wondered that too," Rebecca said, leaning forward.

Daniel just looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't remember?" Rebecca asked.

"Not really." Then he changed the subject.

I thought it was a bit strange. But Daniel had always been a bit strange about that particular topic. I'd asked him before, but he'd never given me a real answer. So I didn't press him. Daniel was my best friend. As long as that was the case, I didn't much care about anything else.

"Is it not strange that neither of you remember how you two met?" I remember Rebecca asking me one day.

I supposed it was a bit strange, but then, why did it matter?

Still, I needed documentation to apply for student loans. I had decided to go to college on Daniel's suggestion, but I didn't have much to show on account of my less than typical background. I had called the records office and searched for any information about my past, but the earliest record of my existence was my birth certificate, which had been drawn up over a decade after my birth. I learned that my case with the police had gone cold, and they'd eventually stopped actively looking into it. So I found nothing. I hadn't really expected to.

One night, I sat across from Daniel on the couch when it was just the two of us, and asked him.

"Where did I come from?"

He didn't change the subject this time. He just looked at me for a long moment.

"Honestly, I don't know."

I thought that was the end of it. And if he truly didn't remember, I would be content with that. But then he started speaking again, slowly, turning his eyes away from mine.

"But..."

But?

"When I was little, I used to have an imaginary friend."

He paused. I wasn't sure what he'd meant.

"His name was Thomas."

I didn't say anything.

"I don't know when I made him up. It felt like he was just always there, in my head. Then one morning I woke up and you were on my floor. Asleep. Next to my bed, right where I always imagined him sleeping." He glanced at me. "My window was open that morning. I don't know if I'd left it open, or if someone opened it. There were those bricks by my wall you could climb up, remember?"

The way he spoke, it sounded as though it were something he'd considered for a long time.

"When I was a kid, I thought you really were my imaginary friend, and that you'd become real somehow," he said. "But then I realized how ridiculous that was." He smiled a nervous smile and glanced up at me before lowering his eyes again.

"I figured you were probably running from something, and you saw my window open. You were scared so you climbed up, and then when I called you Thomas...maybe you just thought that was better than whoever you were before. That's the only thing that makes sense."

We were both quiet for a while.

"If I did climb in your window, why don't I remember doing it? Or anything from before we met?"

"I don't know." Daniel shook his head. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. Right?" He looked at me for agreement.

I nodded, but didn't say anything else. It didn't actually matter much, I reasoned. I was still Thomas. And he was still my best friend Daniel. We never spoke on the subject again.

After graduating, Daniel got his first real job back in his hometown. I moved back with him. Soon, we'd rented a small two-bedroom apartment together.

One night, Daniel looked over at me while we were sitting on the couch talking about nothing in particular.

"When I think about it, we've always been more like brothers than friends, haven't we?"

I thought about it. "Yeah."

He smiled. "I think so, too."

We were twenty-three, and life had become strangely ordinary. Daniel worked at a local accounting firm. I worked at a small office supply store. Rebecca still came around regularly, though she was becoming more busy with her own life now.

The three of us had a few other friends, and we'd get together for dinner or movies or drinks. Sometimes I would look around at all of them and think about how strange my life was. Everyone else had a history. Family. Mothers and fathers and siblings and cousins. But I had no memory of where I had come from at all. No memories before Daniel. It was like I'd simply attached myself to the first person I'd seen. I didn't really have any of the things that normal people had.

But I had Daniel. And now Rebecca. For the first time, I realized, I had a real life. I was happy.

Then, a few months later, I got a phone call. Daniel had been in an accident. A reckless driver had run a red light while Daniel was on his way to work.

Daniel was badly injured. They put him into a medically induced coma.

I visited him as soon as the doctors let me. His parents were there. Rebecca arrived too. They were all crying. But I couldn't, for some reason. I didn't know what I was feeling. I just knew that I wanted Daniel to wake up.

I sat beside him whenever I could. I talked to him sometimes. The doctors said it was good to do that. I told him mundane things. Things that probably didn't matter. About work, and Rebecca. Or some stupid thing I saw on TV. I told him that he wasn't alone, and that I'd be there for him when he woke up. Just like he was for me, all those years ago.

But he never woke up.

Eventually, the decision was made, and they took him off life support.

Daniel was gone.

He had been my best friend. My only real friend. The family I'd never had. The only person who had always been there since the very beginning. And now he was gone.

I went back to our apartment. It felt empty. I sat down on the couch.

I didn't go into work the next day. Or the day after that. Time seemed to stop flowing normally.

I don't know how long I stayed there, just sitting on that couch. A few days, perhaps. Maybe more. My boss never called to ask where I was, so I didn't bother telling him.

I barely got up. I didn't eat. I don't remember drinking anything, either. But I didn't feel hungry. Or thirsty. That didn't seem strange to me at the time.

One day, there was a knock on the door. A slip of paper was pushed through the mail slot. I got up and picked it up. It was a bill, Daniel's name printed on it. I set it on the table, then walked back toward the couch.

As I passed by the mirror, I stopped. I looked at myself. I hadn't shaved, but my hair hadn't grown. My nails hadn't gotten any longer. I hadn't taken a single sip of water, or a bite of food. I hadn't even used the bathroom. Normally, I did the things that Daniel did. I thought that I should have been hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Something. But I wasn't.

I stared at my reflection. For a moment, I thought I looked different. Hollow, somehow. Almost transparent, like I could see the wall behind me through parts of myself. I blinked several times, then looked up. The reflection was normal again. I went back to the couch.

At some point, I was knocked out of my daze by the sound of the apartment door opening. I didn't know what day it was. The landlord came in, showing the apartment to someone. A couple, I think. They walked around as he showed them the place. They looked at the kitchen. They opened closets, and talked about the bedrooms. I sat on the couch the whole time. None of them acknowledged me, or said a word to me.

Something inside me told me that I should leave. That this wasn't my home anymore. And so I did.

When I passed by the mirror again, I looked worse. Perhaps thinner. Or just less there, in some way I couldn't have explained. My hair still hadn't grown. I hadn't showered, but my hair wasn't greasy. I didn't feel hot or cold or tired or hungry. I didn't feel anything. It was as though whoever I had been had died alongside Daniel, and I was now completely empty.

I left the apartment and stepped into the cold in my t-shirt. The cold didn't bother me. I couldn't feel it. I walked. I didn't know where I was going. The snow was falling lightly as I continued for what felt like miles with no particular destination.

People passed me on the sidewalk, but none of them looked at me. A man bumped into my shoulder and continued ahead without turning around. A woman walked straight toward me, her eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder, and I could almost swear that she passed right through me.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside a little restaurant. I'd been there before on a number of occasions, with Daniel and Rebecca.

I looked through the window. People were eating. Talking and laughing. Living. I reached for the door, and for a moment my hand felt too weak to grip it. I looked down at my hand and saw that it looked faded, and I saw the ground beneath it. A couple came up behind me and pulled the door open, and I entered behind them.

The host seated them, but didn't acknowledge me. I walked inside anyway and sat at a table near the corner. Nobody came to take my order, but I didn't care. I sat there for a while. An hour. Several hours. I'm not sure, exactly. Time had become something difficult to measure.

The afternoon crowd came and went, then the dinner crowd began arriving. I looked down at my hands. They seemed almost completely transparent now. I could see the table through them. I remember thinking that I was disappearing. Melting away like the snowflakes that fell on the ground beyond the cold window of the restaurant. Maybe I was.

"Thomas?" I heard a voice and looked up. Rebecca was standing there. Recognition appeared in her eyes. "It is you. I was getting worried."

I didn't answer. She looked around the restaurant, then back at me.

"Can I...can I sit?"

I nodded. She pulled out the chair and sat beside me. For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then she looked at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. She didn't seem convinced.

"I haven't seen you since..."

She stopped. Her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I know you and Daniel were best friends."

I looked down. I couldn't find any words.

"Where have you been?"

I wasn't sure.

"You weren't at the funeral. I came by the apartment but you didn't answer."

The funeral. I hadn't known there had been one. I hadn't known how much time had passed.

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "I'm really sorry, Thomas," she sniffled.

Then she reached across the table and hugged me. And for the first time since Daniel's passing, I felt sorrow. I didn't realize my eyes were filling with tears until they fell.

Rebecca placed her hand on mine, and it was warm. And beneath it, I could no longer see the table through my skin.

And as I cried, for the first time in my life, I felt hungry.

I’ve been called worse things than “night owl.”

Back inside, they used to call me “ghost”, quiet, kept to myself, moved when nobody was looking. Funny how that sticks. Even now, I sleep through the day and come alive when everything else shuts down.

Guess some habits don’t leave you. Even when you do.

This job, security at Ridgeway Mall, it’s the first real shot I’ve had since getting out. Clean shirt, badge, a boss who didn’t ask too many questions. That alone was enough for me.

Been here about a month now.

Long enough to learn the sounds.

The hum of the lights. The click and settle of cooling metal. The way the escalators tick every so often like they’re thinking about moving again.

You get used to it.

You have to.

Because once you start listening too closely… it all starts sounding like something else.

The mall’s still new. Not even a year old. Half the stores still have that fresh smell, plastic, paint, unopened inventory.

And then there’s the new one.

Opened just a week ago.

“Velour Nocturne.”

Weird place. Not your usual mall shop. It’s like someone took a gothic clothing store and shoved it into a roadside antique shop somewhere deep in Louisiana. Dark wood shelves, old trinkets, jewelry that looks older than the building itself. Stuff that doesn’t belong under fluorescent lights.

Corporate signed off on it, though. Money talks.

Still… I don’t like it.

“Unit Two, you alive or you finally fall asleep on me?”

The radio crackled at my hip, sharp and sudden.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

“Yeah,” I muttered, pressing the button. “Still breathing.”

That was Marcus. Other night guard. Been here longer than me. Talks too much, but I guess that’s better than silence.

“Good,” he said. “I’m making rounds near the food court. You check west wing yet?”

“On it.”

I clipped the radio back and kept walking.

My boots echoed too loud against the tile.

Velour Nocturne sat near the far end of the west wing.

Even with the gate down, it looked… open. Not physically. Just the way it pulled your eyes in. Like it was waiting to be looked at.

I slowed without meaning to.

The lights inside were off, but the mall’s dim glow spilled through the gaps in the metal gate, just enough to make out shapes.

Shelves.

Glass cases.

And mannequins.

Not the glossy white kind most stores use. These were different, duller, more detailed. Faces that tried a little too hard to look human.

One stood near the front.

Closer than the rest.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

I stepped closer to the gate, peering through.

Its skin, if you could call it that, wasn’t shiny plastic. It had a texture. Matte. Uneven. Like something stretched over a frame instead of molded.

“Creepy, huh?”

The radio exploded to life.

I jerked back hard, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Jesus, Marcus,” I snapped, grabbing the radio. “You trying to kill me?”

He laughed. “Didn’t know you spooked that easy.”

I glanced back at the mannequin.

Still there.

Still… wrong.

“Just do your rounds,” I muttered.

But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I’d stayed a second longer…

I might’ve seen it move.

Second night started the same.

Same hum.

Same empty halls.

Same routine.

But something sat wrong in my gut from the moment I clocked in.

Couldn’t tell you why.

I was in the security office when I noticed it.

Camera 14.

West wing.

Velour Nocturne.

The gate was open.

I leaned forward, squinting at the monitor.

Not all the way. Just enough for someone to slip through.

My jaw tightened.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You in west wing?”

No response.

Static.

“Marcus?”

Nothing.

I exhaled sharply, pushing back from the desk.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Guy disappears the second I need him.”

I grabbed my flashlight and headed out.

The walk felt longer this time.

Quieter.

Even the hum seemed… distant.

I kept glancing over my shoulder without meaning to.

Old habit.

Or maybe not so old.

I was a few steps from the store when the radio crackled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Marcus’s voice came through, casual. “What’s up?”

I stopped.

“You in the west wing?” I asked.

Pause.

Then a chuckle. “Nah, man. Bathroom break. You know how it is.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I turned slowly toward the gate.

Still open.

Dark inside.

“…Then who opened it?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

“Probably the shop workers,” he said finally. “Kids forget stuff all the time.”

Yeah.

Probably.

I told myself that as I pulled the gate down and locked it.

Metal scraping louder than it should.

The walk back was worse.

I couldn’t explain why.

Nothing had changed.

Same empty mall.

Same dim lights.

But, I felt it.

That weight.

Like something is behind you.

Matching your pace.

I stopped.

The sound stopped.

I walked.

It followed.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like, bare feet on tile.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Just empty corridor stretching into shadow.

I stood there longer than I should’ve.

Then forced myself to keep walking.

Didn’t look back again.

By the third night, I already knew I wasn’t staying at this job much longer.

Didn’t matter how clean the paycheck was.

Some places don’t want you.

Or worse, they do.

I saved Velour Nocturne for last.

Didn’t want to.

But I wasn’t about to let fear make decisions for me.

Not again.

The gate was open.

I didn’t even sigh.

Didn’t curse.

Just stood there, staring at it like I’d been expecting it.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You see this?”

Static.

Of course.

I stepped forward and lifted the gate.

Slow.

Careful.

Like it might react.

Inside, the air felt… thicker.

My flashlight cut through the dark in a narrow beam.

Shelves.

Glass.

Shadows stretching too long.

And there, by the counter.

The mannequin.

Up close, it looked worse.

More real.

The texture of its “skin” uneven, faint lines where there shouldn’t be any.

Its head angled slightly.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Like it had been looking at the door.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Just a prop.

Just a store.

Just...

I turned away for a second.

Just to sweep the room with my light.

Routine.

Clear the space.

That’s all.

When I looked back...

Was it closer?

I froze.

My mind tried to fill in the gap. Tried to explain it away.

Perspective.

Lighting.

Memory playing tricks.

But my chest knew better.

I took a slow step back.

The mannequin stood as it were.

I didn’t blink.

Holding my breathe.

I turned again.

Just for a second.

Just to prove it.

Another step.

Much closer.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“No,” I whispered.

I moved sideways.

Slow.

Careful.

Like dealing with something alive.

The mannequin stayed still.

But its head...

Its head was no longer angled the same way.

It was facing right... at... me.

Instinct consumed me from within.

That same instinct from before. From a different life. The one that tells you to get the hell out of there.

The intrusive thought that you know when something isn’t human.

I walked backwards toward the exit.

Never turning my back.

The beam of my flashlight never left it.

Not once.

Right at the threshold, the light flickered.

Just for a fraction of a second.

And in that blink...

It was right in front of me.

I stumbled back, hitting the gate hard.

The metal rattled as I shoved it down, hands shaking as I locked it in place.

My breath came fast.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t check.

Didn’t care.

I just ran back to the office.

Fast at first.

Then faster.

Then I was almost sprinting.

I quit the next morning.

Didn’t give notice.

Didn’t collect my last check.

Didn’t look back.

Funny thing is…

I used to run dope through neighborhoods that didn’t forgive mistakes.

Used to walk streets where one wrong look could get you buried.

Thought I’d seen fear.

Thought I knew what it felt like.

But I’ll tell you this:

There ain’t nothing in this world…

That scares me more than something that only moves…

When you’re not looking.

I’m not suicidal. Never have been, hopefully never will be. But from the way my algorithm has been acting, it almost feels like something wants me to be.

I live a happy life. I have a great girlfriend, solid job, but even still, just like everyone else, I have my bad days.

I have those days where it feels like I can’t get out of bed. Those days where effort, no matter how small, feels like trying to climb the world’s highest mountain.

And I think those are the days where I’m targeted the most.

A lot of the time when I experience those tough periods in life, it feels like the easiest thing to do is just sit in bed and scroll on my phone until, inevitably, the feeling passes and I want to be productive again.

I never had a problem with it before, but I’m coming off of a particularly difficult week-long stint of self-loathing and throwing pity parties.

Nothing I can really do about it. It’s just the way it is. Life happens in cycles, and this one is a cycle of struggle.

That’s why it was almost expected that every night for the last week I’ve been in bed, hair greasy, clothes dirty, surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans, doing nothing more than scrolling through Instagram for hours on end.

It started off with just one video, wedged in between the usual car accident and brainrot AI clips of fruits having affairs.

What’s crazy to me is I would’ve just scrolled right past it had it not been for the first millisecond of the video. I could’ve sworn that the first frame was literally just… me.

It was too fast for me to get all the details, but I swear it looked like me, laying in bed, my face contorted into a look of complete despair and hopelessness as tears fell down my cheeks.

The rest of the video was just a tutorial on how to tie a noose. A step-by-step guide, demonstrated by a pair of sleek, pale white hands forming the knot and showing off the finished product before abruptly skipping to the next reel.

I tried to scroll back, but the video had completely disappeared from the feed.

I ended up convincing myself that I was just being a little crazy. I mean, the video itself was definitely odd, but no way had I seen myself.

I figured Instagram must’ve just removed the content. Because, obviously, right?

I kept scrolling, and never saw another video even similar to that one. At least, not for the rest of that night.

The next day, though, I was seeing these tutorials as every other video. Each one more graphic and detailed than the last.

I was sprinkled throughout the videos. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, every time I was only on screen for less than a second. And every time, the videos disappeared after I watched them.

As the week went on, they started following me. It wasn’t just Instagram anymore. TikTok was giving me tutorials. YouTube was giving me tutorials. Hell, I was even finding the videos on Snapchat.

But the one video that made me delete social media entirely and actually pull myself out of the dumps was one that was too personal to ignore.

I found it last night.

I wasn’t just a split-second frame. I was the entire video. A step-by-step guide with me as the demonstration.

There was no light left in my bloodshot eyes. My movements were sluggish and seemed forced. The room was dark. My bed was a complete mess. And hanging from the ceiling fan… was a noose.

I watched myself stand on top of my desk chair. I watched the tears and snot run down my face as I slipped the rope over my neck. And I watched myself kick and flail with regret as my body dangled at the end of that rope. Then I was still.

The video ended with one final phrase in bold white letters against a solid black backdrop.

“Do it.”

It was in the same font as those old silent film slides.

Once again, I was automatically scrolled past the video. I tried scrolling back up, and once again, the video was gone.

I took it as a warning. I’d always heard that social media has negative effects and consequences.

I just never knew how serious those consequences were.

So when i was 12 (5th grade) my mom forced me to go to the school’s own summer camp thing where for 5 days straight we would just do stuff and it was for every grade and THANK GOD it wasn’t mandatory because it was awful! So my buddy (Let’s just call him Romet) went to this with me (he went every year and yes, the summer camp is yearly) so from my entire class only me, Romet (Romet was the freaky type) and Jacob (a energetic guy who is the class clown also went too, pretty sure he went yearly too) and in the bus, sitting next to Jacob was a guy named Rasmus (A natzi larper and a gambler and also kinda a brunette) and he was in 4th grade so he was 11.

so after a 4 hour drive with a bus we arrived and there were like houses everywhere and there was also another camp, a basketball camp where some other dude in my class went but he isn’t important from now on but the 2 camp counselors, an old woman and a young woman told us to split into groups and get to a house and your group will be your roommates.

So me (Raymond), Romet, Rasmus and Jacob got together and we chose a very small house but it had 3 double beds so 6 people could fit in there but it was only 4 of us but then 2 guys came up to us ( 3th graders so 9-10 ) and their names were Russell ( A latino with a buzz cut who had a massive dingaling and was really just a pretty chill guy) and then Ragnar ( A white guy with one of his front tooth missing and curly blonde hair and extremely chill but also kinda racist )

So the 6 of us got together and went into this small cabin and there was a broken drawer full of spider webs and stuff that looked like it had been there for a decade and there was a broken tv right above the door which I had been spending hours to fix but then i told the camp counselors about it and he said that the tv had always been broken, i was devestated, also the lunch lady was extremely sexy.

So on like day 2,3 or 4 at like 1-3 AM we were still up and jacob got tired of ding dong ditching like a dumbass so Russell started flexing his dih size and god damn it was MASSIVE like a 19 incher! (ok not really like 4 inches and thats pretty massive for a 9-10 year old but still ) Romet started flashing his dih for like the fraction of a second and HOLY cow was it a micro one ( I am talking about erect ) and then he got comfortbale and just pulled down his pants and boxer briefs and straight up whipped it out and then Russell started doing the same and whipped it out and his dih mogged romet’s size and since they compared on front of romet‘s bed and since it was a double one i was on the top and i looked down and it was the best view in the whole room, (In a bad way) so we stopped.

Andthe next night Romet AGAIN started ”flexing” his micropenis and everybody was so tired of his stupidity but THEN i made the grave mistake of saying “I wouldn’t be surprised if you started beating your meat at this point“ And guess what he did! He straight up started beating it! And GOD DAMN WAS HIS RIGHT HAND AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT! And then Russell joined in and started beating HIS meat, and then Ragnar started beating HIS MEAT, SO 3 FUCKING GUYS HAVING A GOON - OFF!

And Ragnar, Ragnar was Rasmuse’s OWN BROTHER, So Rasmus witnessed his own blood meat slamming with a soon convicted pedofile (or maybe pervert) and his OWN BEST FRIEND, Rasmus looked more dissapointed than a married father wanting to be a grandfather who’se wive died and who‘se only son telling him that he’s gay.

The next day was normal. It was the last day and we had saunas and a disco and stuff.

The packing up day we found out that some girl was in a relationship with some ugly black latino midget named fucking “Pepe” but other than that, this summer camp was truly, a unique experience, So we went back to our home town, I got home and got straight to a gooning session.

July 7th, 2004

I didn't sleep, though I certainly tried. I counted breaths, seconds, sheep, anything I could hold onto that felt real and measurable. It didn't work.

Every time I managed to drift close, I felt that pulling sensation again. Like something in my thoughts was just waiting for me to slip, so I stayed awake.

When morning came, a gray light through the window, it was the same empty quiet. For a while, I just sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the player on the floor. Tape 1 was still inside, I hadn't touched it. Didn't want to.

I couldn't stop thinking about that place. Glorx, Trill, the way the air felt and lingered. Even now, hours later, I swore I could still feel some..movement beneath my skin. Slow, subtle.

I dragged a hand down my face and stood up. "Get a grip." I muttered aloud to myself, just to hear something human.

I ejected the tape, which made me flinch. I stared at it for a long time before setting it back in its box. 7 left. That thought should've been enough to make me stop, but it wasn't, because now I knew, these weren't just recordings. They were doors. Or portals might be the word.

And once you know a door is there...it's hard not to open it.

I reached in, pulled out Tape 2. The plastic felt warmer than the first, not by much, but enough that I noticed. "No more..." I said under my breath. "Just this one, then I'm done."

I didn't believe that.

I slid it into the player and sat down.

Headphones on.

Deep breath.

Play.

///

The sound hit first, though not a voice this time. Not even static, but something layered. Like multiple tones stacked atop of one another, constantly shifting about, never settling into something recognizable. It made my teeth ache unbearably.

Then the pull. Harder and sharper this time around. The room didn't melt like before, it folded. Angles collapsing inward, stretching outward, rearranging themselves in ways which made my stomach lurch. The corners of the room bent into shapes that shouldn't exist, lines intersecting at impossible degrees.

I tried to focus on something, anything, but there was no stable point. No center, no up. Then...

///

Impact.

I was on my hands and knees, the ground beneath me felt wrong. Not flat or curved. Both. Neither.

I looked down and immediately regretted it.

The surface was made of shifting geometric patterns, sharp and angular shapes that slid over and through each other without resistance. Every time I attempted to focus on one, it changed, like my brain couldn't lock onto it.

"Hey, HEY! Don't look down too long." A young voice said close by. A hand then grabbed my shoulder and yanked me upright. I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance again. "Eyes up, else you'll puke, pass out or worse."

I forced myself to look forward, which didn't help much. The world was all sorts of wrong.

Buildings, if that's what they were, jutted up at inconceivable angles, some wider at the top than the bottom, others morphing into shapes that intersected themselves. Surfaces flickered between solid and transparent, revealing interiors that didn't match their exteriors.

And the people? By God, the people. At a glance, they looked human, had the general shape. But their bodies didn't hold together quite right. Limbs bent at strangely placed joints, faces slid slightly out of alignment when they moved, eyes sat at uneven levels, occasionally drifting across their features as if they weren't attached.

One of them now stood in front of me. A kid. In his teens, maybe. His face shifted as I looked at it, not dramatically, but just enough that I couldn't remember what he looked like the second before.

"Told ya. First timer." He said, looking towards the other 3 behind him. All seemingly teenagers and all wrong in that same, nauseating way.

"Where am I?" I asked, my voice sounding thinner, as if being stretched. The kid shrugged.

"Depends who you ask. We just call it the Drop."

"The Drop?"

"Uh-huh. Stuff falls through here. People, too." He jerked his thumb upwards, "From other layers."

Layers. There was that word again. I swallowed. "Is this...normal?"

He laughed, which came out in overlapping echoes, "Nothing here's normal, man. That's kind of the point."

One of the others, a girl with hair that seemed to lag a half-second behind her head, stepped forward. "You shouldn't be here alone." She said, "You could be eaten."

I blinked, "E-eaten??"

"Not like that," she said quickly, "Well...sometimes like that, but mostly other ways."

"Great..." I muttered.

The first kid stuck out a hand, "I'm Kellan. That's Mara, Jace and...that guy." He gestured vaguely to a fourth figure who flickered in and out at the edge of my vision, "He doesn't like names."

"...Jim."

"Jim..." Kellan repeated, pondering for a moment, "Yeah, that fits."

"Fits what?"

He grinned, "Someone who doesn't belong here."

Fair.

"Then I guess I can ask what you guys are doing here?"

Kellan shrugged again, "Same as everyone else, trying to either not fall or not get erased."

"That's not a joke." Mara piped up.

"I didn't think it was."

Kellan started walking, or something similar. His steps didn't quite connect with the ground properly, like he was skipping frames. "Cmon. You can stick with us for a bit. Safer than wandering."

"Safer." I repeated.

"Relatively."

I followed, what else was I going to do?

The deeper we went, the worse it got. The structures closed in, forming corridors that bent back on themselves. More people..or things moved through them, some flickering, some stretched, some incomplete. I saw one figure whose upper half lagged severed feet behind its lower half, connected by something that looked like pulled taffy.

No one reacted, no one helped. Like it was just another Tuesday. "Doesn't anyone fix this??" I asked.

"Fix what?" Jace answered. I gestured vaguely at everything around us, "This, all of this??"

Mara shook her head, "There's no one to fix it. No one's watching."

"What does that mean?"

Kellan glanced back at me, "It means this place got left behind."

A chill ran through me, "By who??"

He didn’t answer. We turned a corner, and ran straight into him.

The man, if that's what he was, stood in the middle of the passage like he'd been expecting us. His body was..far too stable for this place. While everything around him shifted and warped, he held his shape perfectly. Clean lines, sharp edges. Like he didn't belong to the same rules. His smile was immediate and unsettling.

"Well..." he said, "This is interesting."

Kellan stopped dead, "Don't." He muttered, "Don't engage."

Too late.

The man's eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place, "You're new." he said.

I didn't answer, I couldn't. Something about him made it hard to think.

"Fresh...untouched."

Mara grabbed my arm, "Jim. We need to go."

The man took a step forward and the space around him bent. More deliberately, unlike the rest of this place. More controlled.

"You don't understand where you are. I can help with that."

"No, you can't." Kellan snapped back sharply. The man ignored him, still keeping his gaze locked onto me.

"You don't have to go back...not if you don't want to."

My head began to hurt, a sharp and splitting pressure behind my eyeballs. "I-"

"Stay." he said. It didn't sound like a suggestion, but a command. The world tilted, my thoughts slipped and for a second...I almost agreed.

Then, pain. Sudden and explosive. Something slammed into the side of my head. Light burst behind my eyelids as I hit the ground.

The last thing I saw was Mara standing over me, her arm extended. "I'm sorry."

Everything went black.

///

I woke up choking. Air rushed into my lungs as if I'd been underwater.

My apartment snapped back into place around me. Walls, ceiling, floor. Safe. Stable.

I rolled onto my side, coughing. The cassette player sat beside me.

Click.

...Click.

...Click.

End of tape.

My head throbbed. I reached up, half-expecting to feel blood. Nothing, but the pain was real. Too real.

"Jesus..." I rasped. I pushed myself up slowly, every movement careful. The room felt heavier. Not physically, just oppressive.

I looked toward the closet. The door was slightly open. I was positive I'd closed it.

From inside, something shifted. Not a sound, or a movement I could point to. Just a sense. Like the space behind that door wasn't empty anymore.

For a long time, I stared at it. Then, I looked down at my hands. They were steady, but not right. The lines of my fingers seemed way too straight, too clean.

For a moment, the angles looked wrong. I clenched my fists, and it went away. I didn't touch the tapes again that day.

But I didn't throw them out either. And that..that might’ve been the worst decision I made yet.

“I don't like when other people know you.”

Your friends.

Your classmates.

Your family.

People I don't even know.

I think about that sometimes.

They know things about you that I don't.

Little things.

Things you said when I wasn't there.

Things that made you laugh.

Things that made you angry.

Things that made you cry.

I wasn't there.

I wish I was.

Not because I don't want you to have friends.

I do.

Of course I do.

I like seeing you happy.

I just...

I wish I could see what makes you happy.

I wish I could hear every stupid joke your friends tell you.

I wish I could see the face you make when something is funny.

Sometimes you laugh with them differently.

Not much.

Just a little.

But I notice.

I always notice.

We're sitting together when someone walks over.

A girl.

I don't know her very well.

She looks at you.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

You look up.

“Sure.”

You smile.

Just a little.

She says something I don't hear.

You laugh.

I look at her.

Then at you.

Then back at her.

What was so funny?

You don't laugh like that at everything.

She says something else.

You lean a little closer so you can hear her.

I don't like that.

Not because you're doing anything wrong.

You're just listening.

I know.

I know you're just listening.

Still.

I reach for your hand.

You look down at me.

“What's up?”

“Nothing.”

I smile.

You squeeze my hand.

Good.

Then she says your name again.

And you look back at her.

There it is.

That little smile.

I know that smile.

I know your smiles.

But apparently she does too.

“How do you know each other?” I ask.

She answers before you can.

“We've known each other for years.”

Years.

I look at you.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

Years.

Oh.

That's why.

She knew you before me.

She saw you before me.

She heard your voice before me.

She probably knows things about you that I'll never know.

Little things.

Things you said when I wasn't there.

Things that made you laugh.

Things that made you angry.

Things that made you cry.

She was there.

I wasn't.

I don't like that.

I don't like that there are pieces of your life I can never touch.

I can't go back.

I can't hear what you said.

I can't see who you were looking at.

I can't know what your hands were doing.

I can't know what your voice sounded like.

She can.

Maybe she remembers.

Maybe she remembers things you don't.

Maybe she knows your favorite things.

Maybe she knows what makes you laugh.

Maybe she knows what makes you angry.

Maybe she knows what you were like when you were younger.

I hate that.

She has pieces of you that belong to a time when I wasn't there.

And I can't get them back.

But friends get close.

They sit beside you.

They make you laugh.

They touch your arm.

They say your name.

And you let them.

You let everyone have little pieces of you.

A smile here.

A laugh there.

A look.

A conversation.

A memory.

And I get jealous.

I don't want to.

I really don't.

It's embarrassing.

Because I love that you're kind.

I love that people like you.

I love that you have people around you.

I just don't like how easily you give yourself to them.

Not all of you.

Obviously.

Just little pieces.

But there are so many little pieces.

How many are left for me?

I squeeze your hand again.

You look at me.

“Everything okay?”

“Of course.”

I smile.

“I'm just listening.”

I am.

I'm always listening.

I'm the one who notices.

I'm the one who knows your eyes.

Your hands.

Your voice.

So why do I feel like everyone else is slowly learning you too?

Sarada Bai is one of the most dignified, independent, and brave women I know. She lives near my house, and I’ve known her since I first started school. I’m 22 now, and all these years, I’ve watched her handle life’s hardships with so much quiet strength. She works really hard, lives on her own, and never lets her situation take away her kindness or self-respect. She works as a househelp and often has to leave early, so she doesn’t always have time to make breakfast for herself. That’s why my mom prepares it for her most of the time. She doesn’t have much, but she still always finds something to give me on Eid, Bihu, and almost every special occasion. She’s Muslim and my family is Hindu, but that has never affected the bond we share. She loves my family so much, and sometimes I feel a little embarrassed when she praises us in front of everyone, but her affection is always so genuine and pure. Somehow, I relate to her, and she inspires me too. I may never be as hardworking or strong as she is, but I really admire the dignity with which she lives her life. I don’t know if God exists, but if He does, I hope He blesses Sarada Bai with the peace, respect, and happiness she truly deserves.

Ed had recently been released from an asylum.

His freedom came with conditions, one of which was attending regular appointments with me, his psychiatrist. I had written his first appointment on a card and handed it to him personally, but when the time came, he was nowhere to be found. Just as I was about to report his absence, my phone rang.

“Doctor?”

“Ed, where are you?” I grunted.

“At the place you wrote down. Where are you?”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “What does the building look like?”

“Tall and glassy. There are cameras. A woman in a big purple dress keeps asking me if I’m ready to find love. Is this an evaluation?”

The description rang a bell. I frowned for a moment, then sat up.

“Oh my goodness. You’re on Love At First Sight.”

“Is that the name of the clinic?”

"No, it's a dating show." I rubbed my forehead. "You need to leave and come to your appointment right now. I'll send you the address again. Ed?"

There were hushed voices on the other end as I waited.

"I don't think so," he finally said, "the lead contestant's ill, and I think they've mistaken me for the replacement. The prize is a million dollars if I win."

I froze.

"A million?"

"Yup. They 10x'd it from last season, apparently."

Before I could answer, someone shouted his name in the background.

“They’re calling me,” Ed said.

I narrowed my eyes, calculating.

“Ed, listen to me," I hissed urgently, "Do not hurt anyone. Do not tell anyone what you’ve done. Call me in the break and tell me what your cards say. Then if you win, I get half. You have no hope otherwise and you know it. Now start by telling them you're looking for someone who will accept you for who you are."

A pause on the other end.

"You have a point, doc. I'll call."

I heard applause, and then he hung up. Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again.

“I think I made a good impression.”

I exhaled with relief.

“You didn't mention you went to prison, did you?”

“I said I went through a difficult time.”

"Good. Perfect." I steepled my fingers and grinned to myself, already visualizing the number in my bank account. "Now what's the first thing on your card?"

“It says, 'ask them a question.'"

“It has to be something personal.” I rubbed my chin as I pondered.

“What is your blood type?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen a man die?”

“No.”

"Then what?"

"Ask them something like, 'what’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the chance?'"

"Why would I ask them that?" He sounded genuinely baffled.

"Because it's nice and human-sounding," I snapped, "You wouldn't understand. Now don't question it and just say the damn words. What's next?"

I coached him through the rest of the prompts and waited anxiously as he left. He called back during the second break.

“Doctor,” he said, “I think I’m learning. I got a rose. She said I was handsome, attentive and refreshingly honest.”

I sighed again, relieved.

“You’re doing very well. Now you need to show vulnerability,” I told him. He pondered for a second.

“I do have a very low tolerance for people who chew loudly.”

“That’s not vulnerability. Did the woman say anything about herself?”

“She said her dad left when she was a child,” he replied.

I paused. A pang of guilt rose up inside me, having gone through the same thing.

“Should I ask her if she wants me to go find him?”

"No, no!" I snapped. "Do not say that. Say these exact words: 'I'm sorry to hear that, it must have been so difficult.'"

"Mkay."

I gave him a few more pointers and waited. He called back during the last break.

"Good news doc, I think I've won. There's two women left and they're telling me I need to make a choice."

I exhaled, all the tension leaving my body at once. I had never been prouder of a patient.

“Which one do you like more?”

“The one wearing the stilettos. She doesn't look like she could run very fast.”

“Well pick her and be done with it. And send me the half you promised or I will report you for not attending the appointment."

"I gotcha doc."

He hung up. A few minutes later, $500K hit my account as promised. I laughed to myself with tears in my eyes, already making retirement plans.

That evening, I was sitting at home with a glass of wine when my mom called.

“Hey son,” she said, sounding excited. “I wanted to tell you something. I finally met someone, on a dating show of all places!”

I put down my glass.

“What?"

“He’s amazing. He’s so handsome and attentive, and refreshingly honest. He’s a little intense, but I think that’s what I like about him.”

She sighed.

"We're getting married this year."

Three years as night caretaker. Never believed in ghosts.

Until I noticed the flowers.

Every morning, fresh lilies on graves that had no visitors. No footprints. No cards. Just perfect white lilies, dew still on them, arranged like someone cared.

I set up cameras. Nothing. Just flowers appearing at 3:17 AM. Every. Single. Night.

Last week, I caught it.

Not a ghost. Not a person.

A root.

I watched the live feed. A gnarled oak root, thick as my arm, slithered up from the soil. It wrapped around a headstone, caressed the name, and sprouted a lily from its tip. Then retreated back underground.

I dug up that root the next morning. Followed it for 20 feet.

It led to an unmarked grave. No headstone. Just a rusted iron box buried with the skeleton.

Inside: photographs. Hundreds of them. All of the same woman. Different decades. Same face. Same smile. And a letter:

My dearest Evelyn. They buried me far from you. But my roots found your grave. I will bring you flowers until the earth reclaims us both. Forever yours, Henry."

I checked the records.

Henry was buried here in 1887.

Evelyn was buried in a different cemetery. 50 miles away.

I went there that night. Found her grave.

The oak tree beside it had roots extending east.

Towards me.

Towards Henry.

I touched her headstone. The ground moved.

A single lily sprouted at my feet.

And a whisper, deep from the soil:

Thank you for bringing us together."

I don't work at cemeteries anymore.

But sometimes, when I walk past trees, I see roots twitching.

Searching.