I stopped checking under the bed years ago.
The room smelled of dust and warm cotton. The fan clicked once per rotation, a loose screw tapping time. I lay flat, hands on my chest, listening to my own breathing as if it belonged to someone else.
You missed something today.
The voice did not echo. It never needed to.
“I didn’t,” I said, quietly. Speaking felt like pressing a bruise.
The ceiling held a hairline crack shaped like a river. I traced it with my eyes. The air felt heavy, like wet cloth over my face.
You always do.
My jaw tightened. The voice knew my pulse. It kept pace with it. When my heart slowed, it waited. When it quickened, it leaned in.
I sat up. The floor was cold. My feet found the rug by memory alone. The lamp switch snapped, flooding the room with dull yellow light. Nothing moved. Nothing ever did.
“She isn’t real,” I said.
Then why do you answer?
The words slid in, practiced. They carried the faint sting of antiseptic, like a hospital hallway. Clean. Sharp. Familiar.
I crossed the room and pressed my palm to the mirror. The glass was cool. My reflection looked alert, almost calm. The kind of calm that holds its breath.
You should be better by now.
My stomach turned. Shame rose fast and hot, spreading like an infection. I imagined it under my skin, dividing, patient.
“I’m trying,” I said.
The voice paused. It always paused there.
Trying isn’t curing.
I shut my eyes. The fan clicked. My breath came uneven, then steadied. I pictured a vial in my hand, cloudy liquid inside. Not a cure. Just enough to slow the spread.
“I know,” I said.
The voice softened, which was worse.
Lie down. I’ll stay.
I did. The sheets were cool against my legs. The ceiling crack waited where I left it. My heart beat. The voice counted. Night held. Morning would come.
It always did.
And she would still be there, not under the bed, but settled in place, quiet and awake, inside my head.
Simona A. Brinson
My Life In Word 