The Shadow

The Shadow The first time I saw her was on my very first night in the university dorm. Exhaustion clung to me after a grueling twelve-hour flight, made heavier by the hollow ache of disappointment—my boyfriend hadn’t been there to greet me at the airport. A cocktail of jet lag and heartbreak swirled inside me, numbing my senses. And then, as I flicked off the light, there she was. I stood frozen, colder and stiffer than the ancient ice choking the dorm’s rusty old freezer. My thoughts stalled, my limbs locked in place as if the very air around me had thickened, pressing in from all sides. I couldn’t even scream. She was just... there. A shadowy figure of a woman with long black hair—hair that looked unsettlingly like mine. For a moment, I convinced myself it was exhaustion playing tricks on me, a cruel illusion spun from jet lag and loneliness. I blinked, expecting her to vanish with the spots in my vision, but she didn’t move. Still, I was too drained to think, too worn out to let fear take hold. So I did the only thing I could—I ignored her and collapsed onto the bed, hoping she was nothing more than a fleeting figment of my imagination. A hallucination from an excruciatingly tired brain. But she didn’t disappear. Over the next few days, I saw her again. And again. She never moved, never made a sound—just stood there, a silent silhouette in the dim corners of my room. Each night, I could see her more clearly. The outlines of her face sharpened, the strands of her hair grew distinct, and the darkness around her seemed to pulse with something I couldn't name but felt very familiar. My days weren’t going well either. Two days after I arrived in his country—on my birthday, no less—my boyfriend broke up with me. Such perfect timing, right? A gift wrapped in heartbreak and rejection. I had turned down other scholarships, left behind everything familiar, and flown across the world to a country where I didn’t even speak the language—just to be with him. And now, he was gone. Just like that. Two years of careful planning, sacrifices, and dreams—all of it gone down the drain. The city hall, the immigration offices—they were all packed with people, chaotic. I stood there, lost in an ocean of unfamiliar faces and foreign words, unable to even ask for help. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to say it. Frustration gnawed at me, making every small task feel impossible. I had to walk long hours instead of spending a hefty amount of money on tickets I didn’t even know how I have to buy. I was growing mentally exhausted. Days passed quickly, each one blending into the next. The first snow I had imagined witnessing with him, the first Christmas market, the first Christmas and New Year's—all spent without him. It was the loneliest time of my entire life. My roommates all left for winter break, leaving me in the silence of an empty dorm. People don’t realize how much of a mercy it is to have someone waiting for you—I certainly didn’t, until now. At least I was grateful for the silent presence of the girl in my room, my only companion. On Christmas night, I found myself talking to her, as if saying something, anything, would make me feel less alone. On New Year's night, I woke to the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen sink. Half-asleep, I smiled, certain it was my mom. I was home—I could hear her washing the plates, just like she always did. I slipped out of bed and hurried to the kitchen, but all I found was an empty apartment. The silence pressed in around me, cold and heavy. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the vacant sink, at the untouched countertops. Disappointment curled in my chest as I whispered into the emptiness, “I miss my mom. I miss home.” The next days, I heard it again. The phone rang, and I heard her voice answering, warm and familiar. I smelled her cooking, the rich aroma of spices and warmth filling the air. She called me to the table, told me not to stay hungry. My feet carried me to the kitchen in a daze, my heart pounding. But reality hit like a slap. I found myself standing in front of the refrigerator, staring into the empty shelves, cold air washing over my face. No food. No warmth. Just me—chewing on a hardened piece of toast, the taste like dust in my mouth. And yet, behind me, I swore I could still hear her voice. I could still feel her there, just beyond my reach. The professors kept insisting that we should use the winter break to study, that it was crucial to stay focused and prepare well. But I couldn’t. Instead, I slept through the days, letting the hours slip away in a heavy haze. And at night, I stayed awake—talking to the figure. It had become my best friend, or maybe just the only thing that was still here. The only thing that didn’t leave. Every night, I hallucinated. I heard my mom’s voice drifting through the empty apartment, calling me from the kitchen, telling me to eat, to take care of myself. Her voice filled the silence, soft and familiar, wrapping around me like a blanket I couldn’t quite hold onto. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was alone. And the figure was the only thing that never let me forget it. The first exam finally arrived. I stayed up all night, forcing myself to study, explaining everything I learned to the figure. It listened patiently, nodding in all the right places, offering silent encouragement. I felt ready—almost confident. But when I sat in that exam room, facing the professor’s piercing gaze, my mind went blank. The words wouldn’t come. I stumbled, grasping at fragments that slipped through my fingers like sand. The professor’s face darkened with frustration. His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. “You can’t even answer these simple questions? You don’t deserve to be here. Who gave you that scholarship?” I froze. Shame burned through me, heavy and suffocating. I was going to lose my scholarship. I had failed. But this wasn’t what I signed up for. And without scholarship, I had no choice but to go back— back to a country that would arrest me the moment I stepped off the plane. They would kill me. I knew it. That day, I made a decision; I wanted to go home. I needed to go home. Slowly, I took the nightstand and placed it beneath the ceiling hook. My fingers trembled as I reached for the string—the same string that once held my suitcase together. Now, it was in my hands again. But this time, it would become something else. Something final. As soon as my foot kicked the nightstand away, realization struck me like lightning—the girl standing there, all this time, was ME.