The Glass House

Part I: The Act

The apartment was too clean.

Not just tidy—sterile, as if Alina had scoured away every molecule of memory. White walls, muted grey furnishings, not a frame out of place. The air smelled of antiseptic lemon, a scent she’d grown to rely on more than Liam’s cologne. She had once thought it calming. Now, it buzzed faintly in her nose like a low electrical hum.

She moved through the space without sound, barefoot on polished wood, her steps careful, her breathing shallow.

Liam was sprawled on the couch, laptop open on his knees. “Thai for dinner?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the blue light of his screen.

“Sure,” Alina said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

He turned to glance at her—really glance—and something flickered in his gaze. Concern. Maybe even fear. He sensed it, the invisible wall between them. But he didn’t know what it concealed.

Neither did she, not completely.

On the kitchen counter, her own laptop sat like a waiting wound. She approached it with a strange reverence, opened the screen, and pulled up the document.

The Glass House – by E. Vetrani

She scrolled to the scene. Her favorite, though it made her sick. A little girl in a glass room. The room had no door, no roof, only mirrors for walls. They reflected back a hundred versions of her, all silent, all watching.

“She waved,” the line read, “and saw every version of herself wave back. But not one of them came to help.”

Alina blinked. Her vision trembled. She slammed the laptop shut as though it had screamed.

In the next room, Liam called, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied.

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, leaning gently against the frame. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

And there it was—the worst thing he could have said. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. Because he meant it. Because the thing she couldn’t say squirmed beneath her ribs, kicking and scratching to be let out.

She nodded mutely and kissed his cheek, her lips cold.

That night, Liam fell asleep quickly. She didn’t. Her fingers moved before she understood what they were doing. The laptop glowed in the dark like an altar, and she knelt before it.

She opened the story again, barely reading as she navigated the publishing site. Her username—E. Vetrani—was already saved in the autofill. She uploaded the manuscript, bypassed the preview, skipped cover design, ignored royalties.

When her finger hovered over Publish, her heartbeat roared.

You’re not doing this, her mind screamed.

But her subconscious had taken the wheel.

Click.

The screen blinked, cheerful: Congratulations! Your story is being processed and will be live within 24 hours!

And just like that, she was awake again. Fully conscious. Fully aware of what she had done. She clutched the laptop to her chest and gasped like someone surfacing from deep underwater. Her breath hitched, broke, returned ragged.

The horror came next.

Part II: The Ripples

By morning, Alina’s panic had matured into obsession.

She logged in again, fingers numb, and tried to delete the story.

Content is currently processing. Changes cannot be made at this time. Please try again later.

She refreshed the page. Again. And again. The progress bar mocked her.

Liam kissed her goodbye before work, told her to eat something. She murmured agreement without hearing him.

Her eyes flicked back to the author dashboard.

Views: 0

She checked again after fifteen minutes. 1.

Her stomach dropped.

She waited another hour. Three.

Each view wasn’t a number. It was a pair of eyes. A mind. A person reading the words she’d fought so hard to bury. She checked again.

A comment.

I see you. The glass is cold, isn't it?

Her lungs collapsed. She stared at the screen, trying to un-read it. She read it again.

The glass is cold, isn't it?

It was her line. Almost verbatim from a scene where the girl pressed her forehead against the glass and whispered, “It’s cold.”

She tried to report the comment. The site responded: Thank you for your feedback.

She sat perfectly still for ten minutes, then got up and scrubbed the sink, the floor, the windows. Her hand cramped, knuckles white, bleach stinging her skin.

That evening, Liam came home early.

“You’ve been crying,” he said gently.

“No.”

He reached for her. She flinched. He stepped back, hurt flashing across his face.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Long day.”

She didn’t look him in the eyes. She was afraid of what he might see.

By the next morning, the views had risen to 12. Another comment joined the first:

I was there too. But no one ever saw me. Until now.

She unplugged the modem. It didn’t help.

From then on, everything was confirmation of her exposure. A barista handed her a drink with a too-knowing smile. A coworker mentioned a “haunting little story” they read online. When Liam offered her a glass of water, she dropped it in horror, shards scattering like ice across the floor.

She began to believe there were watchers behind every reflection. The mirrors in the bathroom were covered with towels. She left her laptop off but couldn’t stop herself from turning it back on, always returning to the site.

Views: 24

And then the email came.

Subject: The Glass House From: watcher@xmail.com

You're not E. Vetrani. You're the girl in the house. I was in a house like that, too. I need to know I’m not the only one. Let’s talk.

Alina screamed. Not out loud—never out loud—but in her skull, the sound shattered every thought.

She deleted the email. Blocked the sender.

The next day, another email arrived.

I understand you’re scared. I saw you in the window of the High Street Café yesterday. Please, meet me. I just want to know I’m not alone.

Alina had been at that café. For exactly twelve minutes.

Someone had seen her.

The walls of the glass house were cracking.

Part III: The Consequence

She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Her hands trembled too much to hold a spoon.

She sat on a park bench the next afternoon, heart pounding, breath tight. Around her, the world unfolded in careless calm—kids chasing pigeons, dogs barking at leaves, lovers touching hands.

Then she saw her.

A woman—mid-thirties, small, dark hair tucked behind her ears, a gray hoodie that hung off her like borrowed skin. She approached slowly and sat on the opposite end of the bench.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Then:

“I didn’t want to scare you,” the woman said softly. “My name’s Sarah.”

Alina said nothing.

“I read it three times. ‘The Glass House.’ I knew right away it wasn’t fiction. Not really. I knew… because I lived in one too.”

Alina’s throat burned. “Why did you contact me?”

“Because I thought I was going insane,” Sarah said, her voice shaking. “And then I saw you. Someone else who got out and somehow remembered it enough to write it down.”

Alina turned her head slowly. Her eyes met Sarah’s. They were bloodshot, raw. Desperate.

“You think I got out,” Alina said. “I didn’t. I never left.”

Sarah nodded, swallowing hard. “Me neither.”

They sat in silence, the sounds of the park folding over them like gauze.

Alina whispered, “It was my uncle.”

Sarah didn’t flinch. “Mine too.”

“I was nine.”

“I was ten.”

And just like that, the glass walls shattered.

The connection was unbearable. Every second she spent beside Sarah stripped another layer from her skin. It was what she’d begged for in her sleep, and now, in the sunlit park, it felt like drowning.

They didn’t exchange numbers. There was no hug. No promises.

Sarah stood first. “Thank you,” she said. “For writing it.”

Alina stayed on the bench for another hour, staring at the pigeons, hands clenched between her knees.

She returned home and collapsed on the bathroom floor. Her stomach revolted. Her chest ached.

The laptop sat silently on the desk. For once, she didn’t open it.

Liam found her curled on the couch.

“Alina?” he said, kneeling. “Please, tell me what’s happening.”

She looked up at him.

No mirrors. No screen. No glass.

Only his face, open. Frightened. Present.

Her mouth moved, soundless.

She tried again.

“Liam…”

It was a word. One syllable. But it shattered the silence that had ruled her life.

His hand closed around hers. She didn’t pull away.