She brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea, the delicate steam curling up like a fragile promise of comfort.
Sitting on her couch, she took slow, tentative sips, feeling the warmth spread through her chest even as a cold ache settled deeper inside. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its hands inching toward nine p.m., but time felt meaningless—just a silent witness to her endless nights.
The sounds of the bustling city filtered through the thin walls of her apartment, merging with the faint sound of her neighbors. Yet inside, the emptiness was deafening. Her heart beat slowly but surely, a lonely rhythm that echoed in the silence. Her mind wandered through fractured memories, drifting between the sorrow of a past she could never escape and the hopelessness of a future she feared.
She longed for connection, but all she found was herself—a constant companion in a life stretched thin by grief and isolation. The food she had prepared sat half-eaten on the table, the taste flat, lacking the one ingredient that could make it whole.
She wiped away a tear that had escaped, its warmth contrasting with the cold purple circles under her eyes. Sleep eluded her despite exhaustion, leaving her dizzy and adrift, like a boat without an anchor. She wished, more than anything, to go back home—but the idea of home was a shattered map, impossible to follow.
Her childhood had been a shadowed place, filled with worry and sorrow hidden beneath a fragile facade. Now, in her solitude, those shadows whispered and shouted, filling every corner of her mind. She had been an emotional slave to her parents—the Cinderella of her own suffering.
Pushing herself to move, she donned her oversized coat and stepped outside, the cool night air brushing her face like a fleeting touch from another life. She walked toward the riverside, following familiar paths she dared not change, the current whispering secrets of release and escape.
She walked and walked, a ghost among the living, too withdrawn to meet the gaze of strangers who passed her by. Every step made her want to turn back, but she forced herself forward until the weight of it all became unbearable. The tension coiled around her neck, dragging her back home.
As soon as she shut the door behind her, she peeled off her layers—slowly, deliberately, as if shedding the heaviness of the world. Naked, just like her heart, stripped of distractions. She stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water rush over her, turning her skin red. It burned, but it made her feel something. It made her feel within reach.
Then, as she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel, she noticed a small slip of paper had been pushed under her door.
“I see you. Do you see me?”
Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time in what felt like forever, her mind went silent. Taken aback, she started looking around aimlessly, thoughts swirling as she tried to figure out who could have written the note. She didn’t know anyone in the building—in fact, she didn’t really know anyone in the city. A whole year by herself, and there was no way this was from someone she knew.
Absentmindedly, she found herself staring out the window. That’s when she noticed something unusual—a flickering light in a neighboring apartment. The light kept flickering. She was about to turn away and force herself to forget about it when a figure appeared in front of the window.
The light created only a vague silhouette, obscuring the figure’s face. The silhouette moved in sync with her own, and she realized the faint sound of music playing in the distance matched the song she had been listening to moments ago. Small coincidences that felt oddly personal.
Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else. Slowly, she raised her hand. The silhouette raised its hand too. She took a hesitant step to the left. The silhouette mirrored her. Even though it felt impossible, the beat of her heart kept elevating.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. She wanted to step back, to turn away—but she couldn’t. The silhouette in the window stood frozen, its presence clinging to her like a shadow she couldn’t escape. Her pulse thundered in her ears. It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.
She raised her hand again, hesitantly, her fingers trembling. The figure followed. A trick of the light, a simple illusion, she told herself. But the frantic beat of her heart betrayed her thoughts. It was too perfect. Too precise. Her stomach twisted as she took a step backward. The silhouette stepped back. She moved to the right. It followed. A chill crept up her spine, gnawing at the edges of her logic.
She turned off her lamp. The silhouette vanished. She turned it back on. The silhouette returned. Her breathing grew even shallower. She reached for her phone, but her fingers fumbled over the screen. Who would she even call? She had no one.
She stepped closer to the glass, pressing her forehead against it, desperate to see more than just a vague outline. The flickering light in the other apartment played tricks on her vision, making the figure shift and waver. She squinted, trying to steady her thoughts. Is someone really there?
And then—just for a moment—the light stabilized. It was bright enough that she could almost make out faint expressions on the silhouette. For an instant, it seemed as though the silhouette was mirroring her expression too. The same shocked look covered its face. Its eyes looked hallow and devoid of meaning.
She turned away from the window, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She was exhausted. That’s all this was. An overactive imagination. Shadows playing tricks on her.
Another slip appeared beneath her door.
“You see me now. Don’t look away.”
It felt as though boiling water had been poured over her head. Heart pounding, she made her way back to the window. As the apartment across from her came into view, she saw the silhouette walking towards her too.
An eerie smile was fixated on its face, teeth shinning like pearls. Her chest tightened, but fear rooted her to the spot.
She stood there all night, staring at the silhouette. The silhouette stared back until the sun grew bright enough to blind her view into the apartment. Distorted and confused, she collapsed onto her bed, hoping to reclaim some of the sanity she felt slipping away. Her thoughts circled through the past, the present, her regrets, and an uncertain future. The river of her mind flowed faster and stronger; hours slipped by unnoticed. The clock still ticked like it had somewhere to be.
The sun shone brightly, but it never touched her. The warmth that wrapped the city never reached beneath her skin. Her mind controlled everything now, silencing both her heart and her gut. She no longer had command over the thoughts that surfaced; she was chained to her own misery. She hoped sleep would fix it—but sleep wouldn’t come. And in the quiet, she realized her problems ran deeper than exhaustion.
Another day spent trapped in the stiffness of her bed, wrapped in a familiar sense of inconvenience. As the hours bled away, the sun began to set once again between the buildings. Slowly, she sat up, her eyes drifting toward the neighboring window. Nothing. Just darkness.
A part of her wanted to feel relieved, but peace never came. Instead, an odd hollowness settled into her chest. Maybe it had never been real at all. Maybe she had just been tired—her mind playing cruel tricks. But as she turned away from the window, a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. The apartment felt different—thicker, heavier. The air itself seemed to press against her skin.
Then came the knock. Soft. Deliberate. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned toward the door. Another note slipped under the threshold.
“You look tired. You should rest.”
Her pulse spiked. The walls of her apartment seemed to inch closer. Her vision blurred, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Her legs wobbled beneath her before finally giving out, sending her crashing to the floor. It’s not real. It’s not real, she whispered to herself, pulling at her hair. Slowly, she lifted herself up, her gaze dragging toward the window.
The silhouette. Head tilted at an unnatural angle, watching her. Waiting.
Her thoughts scrambled for meaning. Was she losing control? Or had she never had control to begin with? Her hands moved before she could think, grabbing the nearest notebook. She gripped a black marker, pressing down so hard that the letters carved into the paper: “Who are you?” The silhouette didn’t flinch. It didn’t react at all. And then—slowly, deliberately—it smiled. The same eerie smile covered its face.
A whisper of sound broke the silence. Another note slid beneath her door. As she reached for it her hand was trembling like a leaf.
“You already know who I am.”
She stuffed a towel under the door and closed the blinds, desperate to shut it out. Her mind raced for explanations: Was it a ghost? A prank? Maybe there were no notes at all—maybe she was imagining everything. She opened her journal, flipping through the pages where she kept notes, letters from friends and family, searching for answers.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a different knock this time—insistent, heavy, so loud it seemed to shake the walls. The knocking grew stronger, pounding like a heartbeat… then, suddenly, complete silence.
Hunched in the corner, crying like a child, she crawled toward the door. Lifting the towel slightly, she saw the corner of another piece of paper, just barely pushed through the gap. She gently pulled it free.
“Don’t look away now.”
For the first time, she realized the handwriting looked familiar—the looping letters, the way the t’s and f’s cut across the whole word. Her chest tightened. She began rifling through her journal frantically, comparing each note. Nothing matched. It was a long shot anyway—but the knocks, the notes, the silhouette… it all felt so familiar.
Then, finally, she found one letter that matched.
She stared at the handwriting, her mind racing. It was her own.
Her thoughts stuttered, trying to make sense of it. How could that be? She looked again at the looping letters, the carefully crossed t’s and f’s, hoping to find a mistake, some inconsistency—but there wasn’t any.
The air grew heavier, pressing against her chest like an unseen weight. She could hear the pounding of her heart, each beat like a hammer in her ribs. Trembling, she clutched the paper in her hand, her eyes darting nervously toward the window.
The lamp in her living room flickered again, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.
A chill crept up her spine. Something felt more wrong than ever. She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe. And then she heard it: a faint scratching sound.
It wasn’t coming from the door this time.
It was coming from inside the apartment.
Her breath caught as she spun around, eyes scanning every corner. Nothing seemed out of place—but the noise continued: a slow, rhythmic scraping, like nails dragging across wood.
Her gaze locked onto the closet at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar, just barely—as if it had been left open in a hurry.
The note crumpled in her fist as she struggled to think, to stay rational. But how could she be rational when everything around her felt like a waking nightmare? Slowly, she moved toward the window, as if the glass could somehow protect her. She pressed her face against it, the cold seeping into her skin. Her breath fogged the surface as she stared across the narrow alley at the neighboring apartment window.
And that’s when she saw it again. The silhouette. Standing perfectly still, watching her, imitating her, mirroring her every move. She pressed her hand to the glass—and it did the same. She tilted her head—and it tilted too. A shudder ran through her, but she couldn’t look away. Then, slowly, the silhouette leaned forward, pressing its face against the glass just as she had.
She pressed her head so hard against the window she could hear the faint crack of her nose, blood dripping gently as if it were weeping. But she didn’t feel the pain; her mind was consumed by the truth she had been trying so desperately to deny.
It wasn’t just a silhouette. It was her. Her reflection—twisted, distorted, but undeniably hers.
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor. She covered her face with her hands, shaking her head as if that could somehow make it all disappear.
“It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “It was never real.”
But deep down, she knew it was. The flickering light in the living room cast erratic shadows, and for a moment, she thought she saw the figure move—no longer just a reflection but something separate, something alive. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands trembling as she tried to block it out. But then, just as she was about to scream, she heard another sound.
A whisper. Right behind her ear.
“Don’t look away now.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she turned slowly, every nerve in her body screaming at her to run. Her neck felt stiff, as if the air had turned to glass around her, trapping her in place. She was frozen, paralyzed by fear.
Standing in the middle of the room was the figure from the window. The same tilted head. The same hollow eyes. It smiled at her—a slow, deliberate smile that stretched far too wide.
“I told you, you know who I am,” it said, its voice a perfect echo of her own.
She couldn’t deny it anymore. The notes, the knocks, the silhouette—it had always been her. A version of herself that had been hiding in the shadows, feeding on her fear, growing stronger with every sleepless night, every anxious thought. She had been chasing herself all along, trapped in a cycle of suffering that had no beginning and no end.
Tears streamed down her face as she reached out a trembling hand toward the figure. It mirrored her movement exactly, their fingers almost touching.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Why are you doing this to me?”
The figure tilted its head again, the eerie smile never wavering.
“Because you let me,” it whispered. “Because you wanted me to. You were just so alone.”
And then, just like that, it vanished—its hand brushing against hers before disappearing into the flickering shadows, as if it had never been there at all.
She sat there for hours in the middle of the living room, waiting for the silhouette’s return—but nothing came.
The low hum of the fridge was the only sound filling her apartment. The footsteps of her neighbors were gone, the gentle current of the river outside had grown silent. She was completely, unbearably alone.
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