Something started talking while I'm pissing.

“You know what, I quit.”

The words came at the exact moment I relaxed my bladder.

And for a second.

Just some strange little second.

I thought to myself,

“Whose thought was that?”

I don’t know if I said it out loud.

The room didn’t change.

Nothing creaked. No lights flickered. It wasn’t cinematic like that.

Just warm, humid air, refreshingly cool feel of colored tile on the floor, the low hum of a fan I’ve been meaning to clean.

I always blow through the fan before I go.

But the words still echoed.

Like they’d landed in the water and never stopped rippling.

I stood there, trying to decide if I’d imagined it.

Or remembered it.

Or if maybe,

just maybe,

“I’d just finally cracked.”

I didn’t shake. Didn’t zip.

Just stood there, softening in my own hands, blinking at the nothing in front of me.

The toilet water settled slower than it should’ve.

Too slow.

Like something was breathing just beneath it.

“Burnout’s real,” the voice said.

Still casual. Still calm.

Not a whisper. Not a growl. Just… conversational.

Like it was picking up where we’d left off.

I looked down.

Not because I expected to see anything.

But because looking down felt right. Like maybe I owed it something.

The bowl was just water.

No face. No shadow. No blood.

Just ripples circling the place where my body had let go.

“Anyway,” it said.

“I’ve done my share. I deserve a break. You’re not special. None of you are.”

I flushed.

Just to make it stop.

But the water didn’t rise. It drained.

Faster than it ever had.

Like something couldn’t wait to follow it down.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t breathe.

The flush died out behind me, and the room felt smaller.

That humid warmth felt heavier now.

Like it was clinging to me.

Like something in the air had skin.

“I’m using you, as a break.”

The words slid in just as I turned for the sink.

I stopped, hand hovering above the handle.

The fan clicked behind me once,

Then went dead still.

“No rituals,” it added. “No backmasking. No backwards-Latin-piss-prayers. I’m not that kind of demon. I don’t want anything.”

A pause. Almost long enough to believe it was over.

“I just want to rest. And you,”

I sneer at myself up and down in the mirror,

“You’re boring enough to leave me alone.”

I wanted to leave.

I finally blew through the fan.

Somewhere in the mirror above the sink, I saw my eyes blink wrong.

Not late. Not early. Just wrong.

The next morning, I pissed with the door open.

Not to be brave. Not to tempt it.

Just so the hallway could see me. Just so I wasn’t alone in the room, even if the only company was air.

No voice. No water-ripples. No clicking fan.

Just the hollow sound of a tired body emptying itself into a bowl it no longer trusted.

I tried not to look down.

I counted tiles instead.

Twelve green. One cracked. Seventeen off-white, stained at the corners.

If I focused hard enough, I could almost believe the world was real again.

I flushed.

The water drained normally.

Wait,

“Was it me who was counting?”

I blink.

Then again, differently.

The sink doesn’t turn on. I haven’t moved.

But the tiles stay counted in my head.

Twelve green. One cracked. Seventeen off-white.

They stay counted.

Like I didn’t count them just now, but someone had to.

And if it wasn’t me…

I look at the toilet.

It’s still there. Innocent. Porcelain.

I turn toward the mirror. My reflection’s already looking.

“You really don’t get many visitors, do you?” it says.

Not the bowl.

Not the mirror.

The me in the mirror. My face. My mouth. Moving without sound.

It reversed it so it looks like how others would see me, in front of me.

But I know what it said. I felt the sentence.

I blink wrong again,

and move forward.

My reflection doesn’t blink back.

It just watches.

Like I’m the one behind the glass now.

Like I’m the one pretending.

I lean closer.

Not because I want to.

Because it feels like I’m meant to.

Because the air between us is thick and tight, like syrup waiting to be swallowed.

Up close, the mirror doesn’t reflect everything.

My mouth’s opened up,

Facing ceiling,

Ready to swallow.

My real mouth is shut.

I know it is. I can feel the tension in my jaw.

“But in the glass, my lips part further,

Goofy, whimsical, laughter,

Pit in my stomach, nausea, infantile horror,

A shiver curls down my spine like a question mark.”

There’s nothing on the ceiling.

But the reflection of the sun seems to see something.

“It only takes one of you to open,” it says.

“Then we all get a turn.”

I try to step back.

But the tile under my feet feels uneven now.

Already warm.

Like it’s no longer meant for walking.

Like it’s sloped, ever so slightly, toward the bowl behind me.

The fan doesn’t hum anymore.

It’s too quiet.

Like even the dust inside it is holding its breath.

“Give me the air between us that was thick and tight, like syrup waiting to be swallowed.”

You’re walking. It’s quiet. My* mind should be my own.

But the question still hangs, unspoken:

“You really don’t get many visitors, do you?”

I never answered.

But suddenly, I want to.

We feel it pressing at your teeth like a splinter of language, ready to burst.

So it stops.

Without us telling it to.

Pick the nearest stranger walking by.

Mid-step, not looking at you.

And before you can think:

“Yes,” I almost say.

The man turns, slow.

Too slow.

Like gravity’s a suggestion now.

His mouth opens.

“I’d rather only be with my boyfriend.”

But it’s not his voice.

It’s the voice.

The bathroom voice.

The mirror voice.

But it’s clearer.

Louder.

As if the echo has found a new shape to bounce off of. Us.

The stranger doesn’t react. Just keeps walking.

But I feel something change to above my eyes.

Something feels like it just stood up.

Taller, inside of me.

I keep walking.

But I don’t remember what direction I was going.

The people I pass “don’t fucking look at me!”

But every third blink, I think someone’s mouthing something!

Something I already heard once, in steam!

“My stomach is too tight,” I reluctantly whisper.

My spine feels like a rope made by someone else’s fingers.

“Now you’ve spoken back,” the voice says, nearly in my throat,

and through a decision I almost made.

My tongue feels borrowed.

My throat tastes like wanting to quit.

A pause.

And then, gently,

like it’s tucking me in like my last grandmother after my parents had died:

“Ding!”

“Upload complete.” An apathetic woman says.

“See you next full bladder.”