Chapter 1: Prolouge
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“I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map but rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that's never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave. See, when I'm up I don't kill myself because, holy shit, there's so much left to do! When I'm down I don't kill myself because then the sadness would be over.”- Neil Hilborn
Chapter 2: The Voice in the Glass
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The buzzing was the first thing I heard. It sliced through my sleep like a knife.
I jolted awake, gasping, my chest tight. My fingers fumbled for the alarm clock, slamming them down to silence it. But my hand shook so badly I had to press it twice before the noise stopped.
It was still dark in my room — early, probably too early. The air was heavy and cold, the kind that made everything feel… wrong.
My gaze wandered to the scale beside my bed. It was gleaming in the dim light, as if it had been waiting for me. I knew it had, but the thought still made my skin crawl.
I dragged myself out of bed. My legs were unsteady, but I forced myself to walk over. I had to check. I stepped on.The numbers blinked up at me. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.I exhaled slowly. It wasn't a relief I felt. It was calculation. Like a cold equation I had to solve, one number at a time.
And then I saw it. In the mirror, just beside me. My reflection. It looked… off.
It was slower, somehow. Like it was lagging behind. But that didn’t make sense.
“Good girl.”
The voice was soft. Almost loving.
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
“...What?” I whispered.
Nothing.
I blinked. My breath quickened. Had I really heard that? Or was I still half asleep?
But the voice… it had been real.
“Good girl,” it said again, softer this time.
I backed away from the scale, my pulse thudding in my ears. I looked at the mirror, but my reflection didn’t look any different. It wasn’t moving. It was just there.
But somehow, it wasn’t right.
I was breathing too fast. I had to get out of here.
I staggered into the bathroom, not even bothering to turn on the light. The dim glow from the hallway was enough. The mirror fogged from the heat of the shower Mum had taken earlier, but I could still see my face in it.
I reached for the brush on the counter, trying to steady my hands. But as soon as I looked into the mirror again, I heard it.
“Stress looks good on you.”
I froze, brushing my hair.
I had to be losing it. I had to be. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe, trying to tell myself it was just stress.
“It’s just stress,” I muttered under my breath.
But the voice wasn’t done.
“Stress makes the bones show. You’re doing great.”
I shuddered.
“You’re not real,” I whispered, staring at the reflection. The eyes looking back at me didn’t feel like mine anymore.
“I’m as real as you need me to be,” it said, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “You promised to stop at fifty. Then forty-eight. Then forty-five. Now? Now you just want to disappear.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart pounding.
“Stop talking.” I muttered.
I laughed-It laughed. “Why? You love my voice. You made me.”
I slammed my fist against the sink, feeling the cool ceramic beneath my skin. The sharp pain was enough to clear my head. But only for a moment. I looked up again. The reflection smiled. The smile was wrong. It was too wide, too knowing. And I was too tired to fight it.
I was still shaking when I finally left the bathroom.
Mum was in the kitchen, her back to me as she moved around, making breakfast. The soft hum of the toaster was the only sound. I hadn’t heard it until now, but now that I was awake, it felt too loud. Everything did.
“Nat,” Mum said softly, glancing up. “You’re up early.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t really looking at her. I was looking at the counter, at the cereal bowl sitting on the bench like a trap. “I’m not hungry,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
Mum didn’t argue. She didn’t even look surprised. She just nodded, her eyes softening.
“You said that yesterday too.” She says.
“I’m fine, Mum.”
She didn’t press. I think she knew better than to push right now. But I could feel her watching me as she turned back to the toaster. I could feel her eyes on my back.
The voice in my head whispered then.
“She’s watching. Don’t eat. Don’t let her win.”
I pressed my palms into the counter to steady myself. My heart was racing. My breath was sharp.
“Shut up,” I whispered, but I wasn’t sure if I meant it.
“What was that?” Mum asked, her back still turned, but her voice tight with concern.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
I could feel the reflection laughing. “Good girl.”
Chapter 3: Devoured
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II’m not sure when it started. I think it was after Dad, but maybe it was before and I just didn’t notice. Maybe it was already there — waiting — and he was the only thing keeping it quiet.
After he left, everything in the house changed. It wasn’t sudden, like people think grief is. It was slow, like rot. It started in the corners, in the silence between footsteps.
Mum cried a lot in the beginning. In the kitchen, mostly. She thought I couldn’t hear her, but the walls in our house are thin. Her sobs always started soft — a sharp breath, a shaky exhale — and then turned into something hollow, like she was apologizing to the air.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. It felt like I was holding my breath all the time. Like if I let it out, I’d never stop.
The house started to feel heavier. I used to sit at the table, staring at the empty chair across from me — his chair — waiting for it to creak, or move, or do something. It never did. But I always left space for him. I still do.
At first, I stopped eating because everything tasted wrong. The food didn’t smell like anything, didn’t feel like anything. Just texture. Just chewing.
Then people started noticing. Mum would say, “You need to eat, Nat.”
And I’d say, “I’m not hungry.”
And for a moment, she’d look relieved. Like she could stop worrying, because at least I was talking.
But then she’d look at me again — really look — and her face would fall.
That’s when I realized it worked.
Not eating.
It made people stop asking questions about the things I couldn’t explain. About him. About the funeral. About how I was “coping.”
Everyone wanted me to be okay. And the easiest way to make them think that was to give them something else to focus on.
At first, it was accidental. Skipping a meal. Saying I wasn’t hungry.
Then it became a routine.
Then it became the only thing that made sense.
Because food was measurable. Numbers were tangible. Grief wasn’t.
Grief was this endless, shapeless thing — but calories, scales, steps, those were things I could count. Control. Fix.
If I could make the numbers smaller, maybe the ache would shrink too. Maybe I could take up less space, need less, feel less.
It worked for a while.
Until the voice came.
It didn’t happen all at once. The rules came slowly, like whispers that turned into laws.
At first, it was simple — skip breakfast, eat less at dinner. Easy things. Logical things. But then my brain started keeping score.
If I had lunch, I had to walk.
If I didn’t walk, I couldn’t eat.
If I looked in the mirror and didn’t hate what I saw, I must’ve done something wrong.
They were just thoughts at first. Then they became steps. Then they became rituals.
I started cutting food into smaller pieces. Tiny ones. Like if I made them small enough, they wouldn’t count. I’d move them around the plate, push them to the edge, pretend I was full.
I counted everything — bites, calories, steps, minutes of sleep, even the seconds I spent looking at myself. Everything had to mean something. Everything had to balance.
And when it didn’t, I punished myself quietly. No one noticed. That was the point.
There was comfort in it, though. That’s the part I hate most — how good it felt.
It was like order in a place where nothing made sense.
Like if I could control this one small part of my body, maybe I could control the rest of my life, too.
Grief didn’t follow rules. Food did.
Grief didn’t stop when you wanted it to. Hunger did.
Every morning, I’d wake up before Mum, before the sun, before the noise. I liked the quiet. The cold air. The stillness. I’d step on the scale. The number decided everything.
If it was lower, I could breathe. For a moment, I felt... clean.
If it was higher, the world ended. I had to be punished. With a blade, or throwing up. Anything to be just a bit lighter.
The voice didn’t start as a voice.
At first, it was just my thoughts — gentle, persuasive. “You don’t need that.” “You’ll feel better if you wait.” “You’re doing so well.”
But the more I listened, the clearer it got.
Sometimes, when I passed a mirror, I’d catch myself whispering things I didn’t remember deciding to say. Encouragements. Promises. Threats.
The mirror made them sound real.
That’s when I started realizing maybe it wasn’t just about Dad anymore. Maybe it had never really been about him. Maybe it was about disappearing — about making the ache inside me smaller until there was nothing left to hurt.
And every ritual brought me a little closer.
Chapter 4: The mask
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I jolted awake, gasping, my chest tight. My fingers fumbled for the alarm clock, slamming them down to silence it. I wasn’t hungry. I hadn’t been for months. Maybe longer. Food was no longer something I craved. It was a calculation — a mere number to keep track of. An exchange. I stepped onto the scale in the bathroom and stared at the blinking numbers. They flashed, too bright, too harsh. But I couldn’t look away. I had to see it. I had to know.
I exhaled slowly, willing my heartbeat to calm down. It was a ritual now. A daily check. A reminder of how I was doing. Not living, but doing. It was a twisted form of control. Something I could hold onto when everything else felt chaotic.
“You're doing so well.”
I felt the cold grip of the reflection settle over me. It was always there, right behind my thoughts, creeping up whenever I felt vulnerable. I didn't look at the mirror, not yet. Not until I had processed the numbers, until I had made sure I was acceptable.
I stepped off the scale and wiped my hand across my face. A deep breath. I was fine. I was fine.
But I wasn’t. Not really. Not anymore.
I couldn’t look at her. Not yet. Not until I had gotten my mind under control.
The mirror beckoned. It was impossible to ignore.
The walk downstairs was a blur. The familiar smell of toast, the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet everything felt out of place. As if I was watching it all through a lens that kept me at a distance.
Mum was in the kitchen, fiddling with the kettle, her back to me as I walked in. I stood at the entrance, unsure whether to sit down or leave. The chair felt too close, too real, and the food on the counter felt like a test I wasn’t prepared for.
“Hey, Nat, breakfast?” Mum’s voice floated in from the kitchen, a little too cheerful for the hour. It was early, too early, and I could already feel the weight of the day pressing on my chest.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I called back, my voice too sharp. The words slipped out before I could stop them. I hated that. I hated the way everything I said sounded forced. The smile that always felt too tight. The way my body didn’t feel like mine anymore.
“You said that yesterday too,” she replied, and I could hear the trace of worry in her tone. “Maybe just some tea, then?”
I shook my head, but she couldn’t see it. I turned away from the mirror, from my reflection. I didn’t want her to know. I didn't want her to see how far I had slipped, how broken I had become. I felt like I was losing something every day. But I couldn’t let her see it.
“I’m fine, Mum. Really.” My words were rehearsed. I said them often enough. Too often. “I’ll have some water.”
"There's cereal if you want it." Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic. She didn’t want to push me. But I could feel her watching me from behind. Watching and waiting.
I nodded absently, but my gaze drifted to the food on the counter — the bowl of cereal, the fruit on the side, the milk. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even look at it.
“I’m not hungry,” I said again, though this time, the words felt like they were wrapping themselves around my throat, choking me.
Mum paused, then sighed. “You’ve got to eat something, Nat.”
“I’ll be fine, Mum.” I walked past her, avoiding her gaze. I felt the weight of her eyes on me. Felt the heat of her concern, and it was almost too much to bear.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t give in.
She didn’t say anything else. I think she knew. But there was nothing she could do. I wasn’t going to eat. I wasn’t going to be weak.
I stepped outside, the crisp air of the morning biting at my skin. The sun was just starting to rise, casting long shadows across the yard. It should have been comforting — the quiet of the world at this early hour. But all I could hear was the buzz in my ears. The hum of the reflection, just under the surface of everything.
“You’re doing well. You’ve lost more. Keep going.”
I hated it. I hated the way it sounded like a compliment but felt like a demand. It wasn’t encouragement. It was a command. A pressure I couldn’t escape.
The school day dragged on. Every class felt like it lasted an eternity. The noise of the hallways, the chattering students — it was all too much. I wanted to retreat, to hide in a corner and disappear. But I couldn’t. Not with everyone watching.
Olivia caught up with me in the hallway between classes. She had this concerned look on her face, like she could see right through me, right into the parts of me I didn’t want anyone to know about.
“You look tired,” she said, her voice soft but insistent.
I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want her to see how bad things were getting.
“Didn’t sleep,” I muttered, looking down at my shoes. My voice sounded hollow, even to me.
“You should come to lunch with us,” she said, trying again, her hand lightly touching my arm. “Everyone’s going to the courtyard. It’ll be fun.”
“They’re all staring at you.” The voice was there, sharp and relentless from the lockers reflection. “They’re watching. They’re judging. They see what you really are.”
I froze.
“They know.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t work. The voice was always there, always gnawing at the edges of my mind.
I forced a smile, but it felt like it cracked halfway through. “I’m fine. Just a headache.”
Olivia didn’t look convinced. She frowned and pressed her lips together, clearly trying to gauge how much I was hiding. But I could see the doubt in her eyes. She wasn’t fooled.
“You sure?” she asked, her voice hesitant. “You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be.”
I hated how much I wanted to say yes. To just sit with her and forget about everything. But I couldn’t. I had to stay away. I had to keep everything in control.
“I’m sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t. I turned and walked away before she could say anything else.
“Lie better.”
The voice echoed through my head as I moved down the hall. I felt the eyes of the students on me, even though I couldn’t see them. “They’re watching you. They see how disgusting you are. How fat. How weak.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to block out the thoughts, trying to breathe. But it was getting harder to keep it together.
The bathroom was a refuge. It was the only place I could go to escape, even if only for a moment. I didn’t want to see myself in the mirror, but I couldn’t stop looking. I had to.
The fluorescent lights flickered above me as I stared at my reflection. My face was pale, too pale. My eyes were sunken, the dark circles beneath them almost purple. I had lost so much weight, but it wasn’t enough. I still didn’t feel thin. I still didn’t feel good enough.
“You promised. You said you would be perfect. Look at you. Look at how far you’ve come.”
But it wasn’t enough. It never would be.
I slapped my hands down on the sink, my fingers digging into the edge of the porcelain. My breath came in shallow gasps. My chest ached.
“You’re not real,” I whispered to the reflection, but I knew it wouldn’t change anything.
“Then stop looking.”
It smirked at me, and I hated it. I hated that it could twist me like this. I wanted to scream at it, to make it go away, but I couldn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere,” it whispered, its voice thick with satisfaction. “You made me. You built me. And I will never leave.”
The lights flickered again, and for a moment, the reflection seemed to lean toward me. It was too close. I could feel its breath against my skin, though it wasn’t real. None of it was real.
“You wanted this, remember?” It grinned. “You wanted control. I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
I stepped back, my hands trembling. “No. I wanted peace.”
Peace is for the weak, it mocked. “You wanted power. You wanted to be better than them.”
I couldn’t breathe. The air felt thick, heavy. My heartbeat was thundering in my ears.
“I hate you,” I whispered, though it felt like a lie.
Chapter 5: The hunger
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The world felt like it was closing in again. The familiar weight of the hallway—its flickering fluorescent lights, the murmur of lockers, the rush of feet against tile—was no longer comforting. It was suffocating. Every voice, every footstep was amplified, each one a reminder of how far I was from myself.
My hands were cold, too cold. The ache in my fingers wouldn’t go away. I could still feel the imprint of the sink on my palm, the way the porcelain had bitten into my skin. I should’ve washed the blood off by now, but I didn't have the energy. I hadn't cared.
I moved mechanically, my steps heavy and slow, as if the floor itself was trying to keep me grounded, keep me from floating away.
"Hey," Olivia's voice broke through the fog, and I forced my eyes up to meet her gaze. Olivia was standing in front of me, her arms crossed, concern etched deep into her face.
"You okay?" she asked, eyes darting to my pale skin and hollowed eyes. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“That means it's working. All your efforts have paid off.”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice too sharp, too quick. I wished I could sound more convincing, but it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. I was fine. I just wasn’t myself. And that was... fine, right?
"Come on, you can't keep skipping lunch," Olivia pressed, her tone gentle but insistent. "You're really freaking me out, Nat. You're not looking well. Are you eating?"
“I’m just not hungry.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I knew what was coming. The same thing every day.
“Come on Nattie lie better. She can see the fat.”
Olivia’s eyes flickered with something—concern, disappointment, fear? It was hard to tell. I hated it. Hated the way she was watching me like I was a problem that needed fixing.
"You can’t keep doing this," Olivia said quietly, her voice so soft that it felt like a weight pressing on my chest.
“I’m fine, Olivia.” I tried to smile, but it felt fake. It felt like a mask. One that I was getting better at wearing.
But the reflection in my mind was there, as it always was. It wasn’t Olivia’s voice in my ears, but something darker. Something colder.
“She’s worried. You’re not good enough for her. You’re not good enough for anyone.”
My stomach churned. The ache in my abdomen flared, sharp and sudden. It wasn’t hunger. It was hunger—the kind that gnawed at my insides, the kind that had once been a friend, a companion. But now? It felt like an enemy.
I couldn’t look at Olivia anymore. The longer I stood there, the more I felt like a pretender. Like a fraud. I wasn’t my own person. I was a reflection of a person, stretched thin and cracked.
“I gotta go,” I muttered, before turning quickly. My heart raced, and I could feel the pulse of the blood in my ears.
Olivia didn’t stop me, didn’t ask any more questions. She just watched me walk away, her footsteps echoing in the hall.
The reflection whispered to me then, just loud enough for me to hear over the chaos of the hallway.
“Nattie... You’re doing so well. Just keep going. You’re almost there. Just one more day, sweetheart.”
I barely registered the door to the bathroom slamming behind me. The echo of it seemed to rattle my bones, like the sound of a trap closing shut.
The bathroom was empty, blessedly quiet. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a sickly greenish hue over everything. I closed the door, locked it. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, the same hollow eyes, the same face that didn’t look like mine anymore.
I felt like I was outside of myself, like I was watching someone else suffer, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“You’re doing great, Nattie. You’re almost perfect now. Just a little bit more…”
The voice sounded so sweet, so comforting, but it was a lie. A dangerous lie.
My eyes dropped to the sink, my fingers brushing against the edge. The ache in my stomach was unbearable, but it wasn’t hunger. I couldn’t tell if it was empty, aching for food, or aching to stay empty. I wasn’t sure I cared anymore.
I had to keep going. I had to keep it together. I couldn’t lose control. I couldn’t—
My hand shot out, gripping the counter as the reflection’s voice slithered through my thoughts.
“You promised. You promised fifty. Then forty-eight. Then forty-five. You know what happens next, don’t you, Nattie?”
The hunger gnawed at me again, and I looked away from the mirror, my breath quickening.
“Don’t let it go. Don’t eat. Not now. Not yet.”
It was like an iron band around my chest. My mind was a maze of contradictions. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch the mirror, crack it, break everything, but I couldn’t.
The voice would just laugh. The reflection would be waiting.
“You love this, Nattie. You need this. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’re better than them. Better than everyone.”
My vision blurred. The world swam around me. I couldn’t breathe. The light above me flickered again, and for a split second, my reflection... didn’t move. It just stared at me. But the eyes weren’t mine. The smile wasn’t mine.
I choked back a sob and staggered backward, slamming my fist against the sink. The jarring pain shot through my hand, but it felt like nothing compared to the ache inside. I was fading. Fading into something unrecognizable.
“You’re still here. I’m still here. We’ll always be here.’’
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Without thinking, I yanked open the bathroom door, rushing into the hallway. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears was deafening. The reflection’s voice was all around me now, pressing in from every corner, growing louder, until I couldn’t tell what was real.
I stopped at my locker, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the combination. Every movement was sluggish, disconnected. My mind felt too far away, too distant.
“Why are you doing this? You’re better than them, Nattie. You’re better than everyone.”
My fingers brushed the edge of the locker door, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw my reflection again. Only it wasn’t mine.
It was the version of me that had kept pushing, kept punishing. Thin. Perfect. Empty.
The reflection grinned.
My stomach churned again. I needed to get away. I needed to disappear.
As the bell rang, signaling the start of the next class, I turned and fled.
Chapter 6: Breaking point
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The day feels endless.
Each second stretches thin, like a rubber band pulled too far. I can’t remember the last time I felt full, or warm, or real.
Every sound grates against me — footsteps, laughter, the dull clang of lockers. It’s all background noise to the voice that won’t stop whispering.
“You’re fading, sweetheart. It’s beautiful.”
I press my fingers against my temples, but it doesn’t help. The whisper moves with me — in my breath, in the space behind my eyes.
I just need the bathroom. Just a minute alone. Just to breathe.
The door swings open, hinges screeching. Cold light floods the empty space. I shut the door behind me, gripping the sink for balance.
The mirror is waiting.
My reflection tilts her head slowly, lips curving into that too-sweet smile.
“You look pale, sweetheart. Perfect.”
I swallow. “Stop it.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I SAID stop it!”
My hand coming up and slapping the glass.
The mirror hums softly. My reflection doesn’t flinch; her eyes glitter, patient, indulgent. “You’re shouting at yourself again, sweetheart. It’s not a good look.”
I glare at it — at me — my pulse hammering in my ears. I can’t tell which of us is breathing faster.
“You’re not real,” I whisper.
“Oh, Nattie,’’ it croons, almost lovingly. “You’ve said that before. You don’t even believe it anymore.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing this again.”
“Doing what? Talking to yourself? Hurting yourself? Pretending you can stop?”
My stomach twists. I glance down at the sink, my knuckles white against the porcelain. The edge digs into my skin, grounding me. But when I look up again, its gaze is softer — sweeter.
“I can help you,” it says. “You just have to let me take over for a little while. You don’t need to keep fighting, Nattie. You’re so tired.”
“I’m not tired,” I whisper, even though I am. My voice trembles.
“You are. I can see it.”
It leans forward slightly, the reflection almost touching mine. “Let me speak for you. You never say the right things anyway. I’ll handle it. You can rest.”
I open my mouth to protest — but then I hear the doorknob rattle.
“Nattie?” Olivia’s voice, hesitant, muffled through the door. “You in there?”
My throat locks.
Say something, I tell myself. But my voice won’t come out.
The reflection smiles wider. “I’ve got it,” it whispers.
And then — without meaning to — I hear my own voice, soft, calm, steady:
“I’m fine.”
The words don’t feel like mine. They’re smooth. Controlled. Almost... convincing.
Olivia pauses on the other side of the door. “You sure? You sound—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Again, the voice slips out before I can stop it.
The reflection grins. “See? Easy.”
I shake my head, stepping back. “Stop—stop doing that.”
“Doing what? Talking for you? You needed my help, sweetheart.”
I want to scream, but I can’t. My body feels like it’s made of static, my hands trembling. I grip the edge of the sink again and catch a glimpse of my wrist — the faint, silver, purple and white lines there, almost invisible under the harsh fluorescent light.
Its eyes dart down, following my gaze. “I remember those,” it murmurs. “You said it would only be once. Just to quiet the noise. And it worked, didn’t it, Nattie?”
My breath catches. I yank my sleeve down.
“Shut up.”
You liked the quiet, it purrs. You just wanted to feel something you could control. It’s okay. I can bring that back for you.
“No.”
Yes, sweetheart. Just a little. Just enough to make it stop.
My hand moves before I think — a small, frantic scratch against the skin of my arm, sharp and fleeting. Not deep, not new. Just a reminder. The ghost of something I never wanted to remember.
The reflection sighs — a sound of deep satisfaction. There she is. My Nattie. Doesn’t that feel better?
Tears burn my eyes. “You’re sick.”
You made me, it whispers. You taught me how.
A sound catches in my throat — something between a sob and a laugh. I can’t tell anymore.
On the other side of the door, Olivia knocks again, softer this time.
“Nattie? Please, open the door.”
I want to. I want to so badly. But the reflection only shakes its head, slow and deliberate.
“Don’t you dare. She’ll ruin everything.”
“I—” My voice catches.
And then, without thinking, the words come again. Smooth. Perfect. Not mine.
“I said I’m fine.”
Olivia’s voice fades down the hall, quiet and unsure.
Silence fills the bathroom again.
The reflection tilts its head. “You see? I told you I could take care of it.”
I press my trembling hand over my mouth. My other sleeve slips back, just enough for the faint red mark to catch the light.
I can’t tell if the sting in my skin is real — or if it just wanted me to feel it.
The mirror hums again, low and sweet.
“Good girl,” it whispers. “Now, let’s get you perfect again.”
Chapter 7: Unraveling
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The silence after is heavy — thick enough to feel. The kind that settles deep in my bones.
I keep staring at my wrist. The old scars are pale now, faded to ghosts under my skin. The one I just made raw and bleeding. But they still remember. I still remember
“You always come back to me, sweetheart,” it murmurs. “No matter how many times you swear you won’t.”
I breathe in sharply. “Stop.”
“You like the quiet afterward. You like the control.”
“I said stop.”
The voice doesn’t. It never does.
“You want peace, don’t you, Nattie? You said that once. Peace. I can give you that.”
I grip the sink harder, nails biting into my palms. The fluorescent light buzzes above me, flickering — or maybe it’s my vision.
“Peace isn’t what you want,” I whisper. “You want me gone.”
The reflection tilts its head, eyes glittering like broken glass.
“Gone? No, sweetheart. I want you to be perfect. I want us to be the same.”
Its lips move before mine do. I see it forming the next words before I feel them leave my mouth.
“I’m fine,” it says — but it’s my voice. My throat. My breath.
I stumble back, my shoulder hitting the cold tile wall. My pulse stutters.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Helping,” it says simply. “You never know what to say. You’re always so scared, so small. Let me talk for you. It’s easier this way.”
I shake my head. “No. No, I can’t—”
My reflection blinks. I blink. The same rhythm. The same breath.
When I speak again, the words don’t feel like mine.
“She doesn’t understand,” my mouth says. The voice sounds calm. Too calm.
But inside, I’m screaming.
“Good girl,” it whispers. “You’re learning.”
The light flickers again. For a moment, the reflection isn’t matching me at all. It’s moving on its own. Smiling wider. Watching me unravel.
I press my sleeve back down, hiding the thin marks on my wrist, my chest tight with guilt.
“You’re not real,” I breathe.
It laughs — soft, melodic, like a song only I can hear.
“Sweetheart… if I’m not real, then who’s speaking right now?”
My heart lurches.
And then the door opens.
I flinch, turning sharply — Olivia’s standing there, eyes wide, her hand frozen on the doorknob.
“Natalia?” she whispers. I can’t speak. My mouth opens, but the words don’t come from me. “I said I’m fine,” I hear myself say — steady, quiet, almost gentle. Olivia’s brows knit together. “You’re bleeding.” I look down, the blood pooling on my covered sleeve; I went deeper than I thought. Olivia steps forward, reaching out, but I flinch away too fast. “I told you I’m fine,” my voice says again. But I didn’t mean to say it. Her eyes dart between me and the mirror. “Who are you talking to?”
The question freezes everything. The air feels sharp. Cold. My reflection smiles wider.
Don’t tell her, it whispers. She’ll ruin everything.
Olivia’s voice trembles. “Natalia, please. You’re scaring me.” I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “I— I’m not—” But it cuts me off. The words slide out before I can stop them:
“She needs to go.” Olivia’s breath catches. “What?”
“She needs to go,” the voice says again, through me, colder this time.
And that’s when I feel it — that shift. The weight of it inside me, not just behind my reflection. It’s in my mouth now. My lungs. My skin.
“You see?” it murmurs, voice curling around my thoughts. “This is so much better. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’ll take care of you.”
I press both hands to my ears, but it’s no use. I can still hear it, whispering in the spaces between my breaths. Olivia’s voice sounds far away now. “Natalia, please talk to me. You’re not okay.” The mirror flickers in the corner of my eye. My reflection is gone. Just empty glass. But I can still hear it.
“She’s in the way. She’ll try to make you eat. She’ll try to make you stop.”
I look up — and for a second, I swear I see it in Olivia’s reflection. Not me. Not her. It.
“You can’t trust her, sweetheart. You only need me.”
“Stop it!” I scream — my voice cracking. The sound echoes off the tiles. Olivia freezes. “Natalia—”
“I said STOP IT!”The lights flicker violently — once, twice — then the room plunges into shadow.
For a heartbeat, it’s silent.
Then, softly —
“Good girl”, it whispers in the dark. “You’re learning to listen.”
Chapter 8: Olivias POV
Chapter Text
Something is wrong with Nattie again.
I can feel it before I even see her.
She’d been quiet all morning — too quiet — drifting through halls like she was walking underwater. Every time I tried to catch her eye, she looked away too fast. Like she was afraid I’d notice something she couldn’t hide.
By lunch, she vanished.
I told myself she just needed space. She does that sometimes. But as the minutes dragged on, I felt it — that pressure in my ribs, heavy and squeezing, like something inside me knew before my brain did.
I start checking bathrooms.
By the third one, my hands are cold.
“Nat?” I call. No answer.
Just the hollow echo of my voice hitting tile.
Then I notice the last door — cracked open just a bit, like someone tried to close it but didn’t have the strength.
I push it gently.
The hinges shriek.
And there she is.
Natalia stands at the sink, shoulders tight, fingers gripping the porcelain so hard her knuckles are white. She’s staring into the mirror with this… intensity, like she’s lost something inside it. Or like she’s waiting for it to speak first.
Her breathing is too fast. Shallow. Wrong.
“Natalia?” I say again, softer this time.
She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch.
For a moment, I think she didn’t hear me — until her voice comes out, low and calm and eerily steady:
“I’m fine.”
But she doesn’t look fine.
She looks like she’s unraveling right in front of me.
I take a step closer. “Nat… can you look at me?”
Nothing.
Just her reflection staring back — except she’s not meeting her own eyes. She’s looking somewhere else. A little too far to the left. Like there’s someone standing beside her that I can’t see.
I swallow.
“You’re bleeding.”
That finally breaks through.
Her eyes dart down to her sleeve — and so do mine. The fabric is darkened, a slow, spreading stain. My stomach drops.
“Nat,” I say, moving toward her, “please let me—”
She jerks back like I tried to strike her.
“I said I’m fine.”
Same tone. Same steady cadence.
But something in it makes my skin crawl.
Natalia doesn’t talk like that when she’s scared. She stammers. Whispers. Falls apart.
This voice feels… controlled. Too smooth.
“Who were you talking to?” I hear myself ask.
She freezes.
The air changes — sharp, brittle, like the moment before a glass shatters.
Her eyes flick to the mirror again.
The fear in them makes my chest ache.
“Nat?” My voice cracks. “Please say something.”
She opens her mouth — but what comes out is quiet, flat, and cold:
“She needs to go.”
For a second, I don’t understand.
Then my heart stumbles.
“Me?” I whisper.
Her pupils are huge. Her face is pale. She looks like she’s trapped somewhere I can’t reach.
“She needs to go,” she repeats — the same wrong tone, like someone else is speaking through her.
I feel myself shaking now.
“Nat, you’re scaring me.”
Her hands fly to her ears, nails digging into her scalp, breath shuddering out in sharp gasps.
“Stop it!” she screams.
The lights flicker.
“Nat—”
“STOP IT!”
The bulbs above us burst into darkness.
For one long, endless second, everything goes black except the jagged sound of her breathing.
I reach for her blindly. “Natalia, it’s okay, I’m here—”
Then, from somewhere near the mirror, something soft and low slips through the dark —
Not a voice I can understand.
Not words I can hear.
Just… a vibration.
A hum.
Like the room itself is exhaling.
Natalia shudders violently, as if whatever it is has fingers wrapped around her spine.
“Nat?” My voice is barely a whisper. “We need to get out of here. Please come with me.”
The lights flicker back in weak, dying pulses.
I see her face — tear-streaked, terror-struck, ghost-pale.
Her eyes dart to the mirror.
I follow her gaze—
And the mirror is empty.
Her reflection is there, of course. But only hers. Nothing else. No shadow. No second figure.
Yet Natalia looks… betrayed.
Like something just left her.
Or crawled deeper.
I step forward and take her hand gently. She doesn’t pull away this time. Her skin is cold. Damp. Trembling.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though I’m not sure it is. “I’ve got you.”
She swallows, throat tight, breathing uneven.
“I… I didn’t… it wasn’t…”
She can’t finish.
I don’t push.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and guide her out of the bathroom, leaving the broken light and humming mirror behind us.
But as we walk down the hall, I glance back one last time.
And for a heartbeat — just one —
I think I see the reflection smile.
Chapter 9: Thin skin
Chapter Text
The house feels wrong.
Too quiet, but the quiet hums — alive, restless. Like something breathing just beneath the walls. I close my bedroom door and lean against it, my heartbeat fluttering too fast. I can feel it in my chest now — crawling up my ribs, threading through my veins. It’s everywhere.
“We’re never alone, sweetheart,” it purrs. “You and me. Always us.”
I slide to the floor, pressing my palms to my ears. “Stop it.”
“You don’t want me to stop, Nattie. You’d be lost without me.”
The words curl in my skull like smoke. They don’t hurt anymore. They just are.
I sit there for a long time, counting my breaths, counting seconds.
It’s the only thing that keeps me from shaking.
Then I hear her voice.
“Nattie?”
My mother.
Soft, careful — like she’s trying not to scare an animal that’s already cornered.
I keep still. Maybe she’ll go away.
The floor creaks closer.
“Nattie, sweetheart, can I come in?” I don’t answer.
“Say yes,” it whispers. “Let’s see what she wants.”
The doorknob turns anyway. The hinges groan, and the light from the hallway spills in.
I keep my eyes on the carpet. My hands are trembling, nails biting into my palms.
She stands there, framed in the light — tired eyes, soft face, the smell of coffee, cigarettes and detergent clinging to her. She hasn't smoked in a while. It makes me want to cry. But I don’t. “Nattie,” she says again, quieter this time. “Talk to me.” I shake my head. “I’m fine.” The words come out smooth — too smooth. Not me.
She sighs and steps into the room, closing the door behind her. “You haven’t eaten. Not since yesterday. Please—”
“I said I’m fine.”
She flinches.
That tone wasn’t mine either.
It’s it.
It’s talking for me.
Her eyes flick down — to my sleeve. The fabric’s slipped just enough to show the pale lines that cross my wrist like old memories.
She gasps softly, hand over her mouth. “Oh, Nattie…”
“She’s judging you,” it says. “Look at her face. She’s disgusted.”
“She’s not,” I whisper, though my throat burns.
“Then why won’t she look at you?”
“I’m fine,” I say again, louder this time.
Her voice cracks. “You’re not. You’re scaring me.”
“Good,” it whispers. “She should be scared.”
“Stop it,” I hiss, gripping my arms so tightly I leave red marks.
My mother blinks, confused. “Stop what?”
I can’t explain. I can’t tell her. If I say it out loud, it’ll make everything real.
Don’t tell her, sweetheart. She’ll take me away. She’ll take you away.
I step back until I hit the wall. The room feels smaller. My chest tightens.
Her voice trembles. “Nattie, please—talk to me. What’s happening?”
“Lie to her,” it says, soft, loving. “You’re so good at lying now.”
My mouth moves before I think. “Nothing. Just tired.”
“You look pale. Maybe we should see someone. A doctor—”
“No!” The word tears out of me before I can stop it. It echoes through the room like a slap.
She freezes, hands trembling at her sides.
“Perfect,” it whispers. “Now she knows her place.”
“Don’t—” I choke out the word, shaking. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I didn’t say anything, sweetheart.”
“Yes, you did!”
My mother stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Nattie, who are you talking to?”
The question cuts through me. The air seems to vanish from the room.
“Don’t answer that.”
“I—” My throat locks. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
She steps closer, voice soft again. “Please. Let me help you.”
That’s when I feel it tighten its grip. Like fingers closing around my lungs.
My pulse slams in my ears.
“She wants to fix you,” it whispers. “But you’re not broken. You’re better now. You’re clean. Empty. Light.”
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Please, stop.”
“You mean stop her, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“No—”
“I’m worried,” My mother says. “You’re shaking. Please, Nattie, talk to me.”
“She’s lying,” it growls, and for the first time, its voice sounds angry. “She wants to make you weak again. She’ll make you eat, she’ll make you heavy. Make you fat, look like a pig.”
“Stop!”
My mother reaches out. I step back. My heel hits the nightstand, the lamp topples and shatters on the floor.
The sound makes me jump, glass scattering across the carpet.
Her face goes pale. “Nattie, please—”
“She’s in the way. She’ll never understand us.”
“Don’t touch me!”
I don’t mean to yell. But it’s too late — the words come out sharp and vicious, slicing through the air.
She stops moving. Her eyes are wide now. She looks at me like I’m a stranger.
And maybe I am.
“Sweetheart,” she whispers. “What’s happening to you?”
I open my mouth, but it gets there first.
“She’s fine,” my voice says. But it’s not me.
It’s calm. Cold. Almost kind.
My mother’s lips tremble. “You’re scaring me.”
The air feels too still. My reflection on the window glass behind her is smiling.
“She doesn’t belong here anymore, Nattie. Just let her leave.”
My head throbs. My vision blurs.
She takes one more step toward me. “I love you,” she says softly. “You hear me? I love you.”
“She’s lying,” it hisses. “She just pities you. She’ll never love what you’ve become. Your too perfect”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop talking.”
“You mean me or her?”
“Stop—”
When I open my eyes again, I’m closer to the window. My reflection looks wrong. Its mouth moves. Mine doesn’t.
“You’re tired, sweetheart,” it says gently. “You don’t have to fight anymore. I can take care of everything.”
I stare at it. My reflection — my face — smiles, soft and tender. Almost loving.
And then I feel it. That pull. That slow, sinking warmth as it begins to move — not behind the glass, but through it.
My hand lifts. I don’t tell it to.
It brushes the faint marks on my wrist.
“One more, sweetheart. Just one. You’ll feel better. You’ll feel clean.”
“No.”
But the word barely comes out. It’s a whisper. Weak. I feel the edge of the broken glass under my fingers — cool, sharp, almost familiar. My mother’s voice breaks through again, a plea from far away. “Nattie, don’t—!”
But it’s too late.
Just a tiny cut.
Thin. Red.
A release.
“Good girl,” it purrs.
The blood wells up in a soft bead, running down my arm like a quiet secret.
I stare at it — not horrified, not scared. Just empty.
My mother gasps, her hand covering her mouth. I can’t even meet her eyes.
I turn toward the window instead.
The reflection smiles back.
“See? I told you. Doesn’t it feel better now?”
And the truth is… it does.
For a second, everything goes silent.
The noise. The guilt. The fear.
Just quiet.
Just it.
Before Natalia knows it, mum is back. She holds an already opened anti septic wipe in one hand, gingerly grabbing Natalia's arm with the other.
The wipe stings, but she doesn’t mind. Natalia leans into the wipe, wishing her mum had grabbed an alcohol wipe instead.
It doesn’t take much longer before she has a dab of antibiotic cream on the wounds and bandaid on top. A chaste kiss is given over the bandaid, on Natalia’s forehead.
After throwing the wrappers into the trashcan by the door, Mum sweeps her back into an embrace.
“I know I don’t get it,” Mum starts, “but, I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
Chapter 10: Borrowed skin
Notes:
this is perhaps my fave chapter
Chapter Text
When I wake, the light in my room feels… wrong.
It’s morning, but it looks off somehow — too pale, like the sun’s gone thin. My sheets are damp, the smell of metal clinging to them. My wrist throbs beneath the bandage, I must have wrapped around it last night, though I don’t remember doing it.
I try to sit up, but the world tilts sideways. My head buzzes — not pain, not exactly, just a low electrical hum that lives inside my skull. It's almost like I can see it.
For a few seconds, I can’t tell if my eyes are open or shut.
Then I hear it again.
The hum shifts.
The whisper slides through it like silk.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
My throat closes. “No.”
“You should thank me,” it says, sweetly. “You slept for hours. I kept the noise away.”
I press a pillow to my ears, but it doesn’t help. The sound is underneath everything — the fan, the ticking clock, my heartbeat.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I whisper.
“You never have to ask, Nattie. I know what you need.”
I drag myself to the edge of the bed. My reflection in the mirror — the one I thought I covered again — is already uncovered. The towel lies folded neatly on the chair, as though someone placed it there with care.
I don’t remember doing that.
The glass doesn’t shimmer this time. It’s still, patient. I stare at it for too long, waiting for movement that doesn’t come. My face looks normal. Pale, tired, real.
But when I blink, its lips twitch.
“How’s the wrist?” It asks softly.
I don’t answer. I just pull down my sleeve.
“Don’t hide from me. You did it for us. You always do.”
My pulse spikes. “I said stop.”
“You don’t mean that, sweetheart. You just need rest. I can take care of today.”
The words sink in before I understand what they mean. “What do you mean, take care of—”
The air bends.
I see my body move in the mirror before I feel it.
My hand rises, fixing my hair. My lips curve into a small smile.
But I didn’t do it.
A cold panic grips me. “Stop it—stop moving me!”
Shh. I - It says, pressing a cool finger against my lips. The reflection’s voice echoes through my chest this time, vibrating in my ribs. “Relax. You’ll make us look nervous.”
I stumble backward, but my body doesn’t follow the command. For a moment, it’s like I’m underwater, my movements lagging behind the girl in the mirror — or maybe she’s just faster.
“There we go,” it murmurs, “I’ll handle the talking today.”
The next thing I remember is noise — the clatter of dishes, the faint hum of the toaster.
I’m in the kitchen.
Mum’s voice floats from behind me. “Morning, Nat.”
I try to respond, but my lips are slow, my thoughts slurred.
Then my mouth moves — on its own.
“Morning,” I say. Grabbing an apple.
The sound is smooth, normal, too calm. Not mine.
I hear it, and my stomach turns.
Mum doesn’t notice. She keeps buttering toast, humming quietly.
“You’re eating today?” she asks carefully.
My voice — its voice — answers before I can stop it.
“Yeah. I’m fine now.” I say before taking a big bite of the apple, the sound of the crunch reverberating around my ears.
The words feel alien. Perfectly placed. False.
Mum glances up, surprised. “That’s good, honey. That’s really good.”
I want to scream, to tell her it’s not me speaking, that something’s wrong. But I can’t. My mouth just keeps smiling that big teethy smile, moving like it’s being pulled by strings.
The reflection’s whisper slides through the air, rippling on the toaster too quiet for her to hear.
“See? You sound just like yourself, sweetheart.”
Inside, I’m thrashing. I grab the edge of the counter hard enough that my nails dig crescents into the laminate. I’m fighting to get back into my own body.
It laughs, soft and low.
“Don’t struggle. You asked me to take control, remember?”
I shake my head — a tiny movement — and whisper through clenched teeth, “Get out of me.”
But Mum’s still watching, confused. “What was that, Nat?”
My mouth — not mine — answers smoothly:
“Nothing, Mum. Just talking to myself.”
Her eyes soften, and she turns back to the stove. The voice hums through me, pleased.
I walk to the bathroom, apple core still in my hand, my movements slow but deliberate. I shut the door carefully, making sure it doesn’t make a sound. I drop to my knees, my hands trembling as they push against the cool tile. My stomach churns. I can feel the tightness in my chest, the pressure in my throat.
I’ve done this before, but not like this. Not with it in control.
I shove my fingers down my throat. The gag reflex pushes them back, but I force harder, harder still, until the familiar burn and nausea rise.
“You ate,” it says softly, “so let’s get rid of it.”
The vomit comes spilling out, hot and acidic, staining my hands, my lips, the floor beneath me. The sound is loud in my ears, deafening, almost like the echoes of all the times I’ve done this before, when I was in control.
I can’t stop it. I almost don’t want to.
My reflection never leaves. It’s there in the mirror, watching me, smiling faintly.
“Good girl,” it whispers, though I know it’s not my voice. “You’re doing so well. Keep going, Nattie.”
I heave again, stomach emptying itself of everything, even though there’s nothing left to purge. My body shakes, but I don’t stop.
“You can’t stop me, can you?”
I gag harder. The world tilts, but the voice — its voice — steadies me.
“There, sweetheart. Isn’t that better?”
I fall back against the cold tiles, chest heaving. I feel like I’m suffocating, but I don’t care. It’s better this way.
I don’t know how much time passes before I finally lift my head, staring at the mess in the sink, my reflection staring back at me with that too-soft smile.
“You’re free now, Nattie.”
But I’m not.
Not anymore.
I wash my hands — mechanically, three times, soap, water, repeat. Because that’s all I can do anymore. But as I look into the mirror, my reflection doesn’t fade. It lingers, it watches, it waits. And I can’t look away.
I don’t want to.
You’ve done so well, it says again. Just one more step. We’re almost there. Almost perfect.
I force my eyes shut, trying to shut it out. But it’s already inside.
She doesn’t notice, sweetheart. They never do.
The day folds into itself.
I drift through it like a passenger. School hallways blur past — faces, colors, noise. When teachers ask questions, it answers for me. When friends say hello, it smiles back. I hear my own laughter and don’t recognize it.
Sometimes I catch glimpses — in the window of a classroom, in the metal of a locker — of that perfect version of me, watching from the glass.
Each time, the smile gets sharper.
By afternoon, the hum behind my eyes becomes a steady static.
My thoughts don’t feel like mine anymore.
You wanted this, Nattie.
You wanted quiet.
You wanted peace.
When the final bell rings, I don’t go home right away. My feet move on their own, carrying me to the old storage hallway near the gym. It’s empty, lit only by the red EXIT sign.
There’s a small square mirror above a broken sink. I stand in front of it.
My reflection looks exactly like me — until it blinks out of sync.
Just once.
Then smiles.
“You did so well today, sweetheart.”
“Get out,” I whisper, voice shaking.
Why would I? You can’t even stand without me.
I grip the edge of the sink, my vision spinning. The hum swells to a roar — not outside, but inside. A pulse, deep and low, vibrating through my bones.
You’re tired, it says. Let me finish this.
I feel my body sway forward.
My reflection’s mouth opens, but the sound that comes from it is mine — my real voice, ragged and terrified.
“Please…”
“Hush, sweetheart.”
It presses a finger to its lips. “You’ll ruin everything.”
The world narrows, light thinning to a single line of red.
The hum stops.
And for one unbearable second, everything is silent — utterly still.
Then the reflection leans forward, lips almost against the glass.
“I told you, Nattie. We’re the same.”
The surface ripples.
Cold seeps up my arms.
And then I’m looking out from behind the glass — at the version of me that blinks, breathes, and walks away.
Chapter 11: The girl with split skin and sad eyes
Chapter Text
The night hums.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just steady — the sound of a world that keeps breathing even when I can’t.
The moonlight leaks through the cracks in the blinds, painting thin silver lines across the floor. They look like scars. Or maybe they always have.
My room smells faintly of lavender detergent and dust. I haven’t opened the window in weeks. The air feels thick, unmoving — like the walls are holding their breath, waiting.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the notebook open in my lap. The paper is soft, the pages nearly full — fragments of me scattered between the lines. Lists, thoughts, apologies that never found a voice.
There’s one page left.
Just one.
My pen hovers above it.
For a long time, I don’t write anything.
I just listen — to the hum of the refrigerator downstairs, to the faint tapping of branches against the glass. To the silence that’s been filling up the spaces inside me for so long.
And then, slowly, the words come.
I’m sorry.
I write it again.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.
I’m sorry I made you worry.
I’m sorry I let the mirror win.
The ink bleeds a little where my hand shakes.
I think of Mom — her tired eyes, her trembling voice when she called me sweetheart, the way she never stopped saying I love you, even when I couldn’t say it back.
I think of Olivia, her hand on the bathroom door, her voice breaking when she whispered my name.
I think of dad.
I think of the girl in the glass — the one who smiled when I couldn’t.
“I just wanted it to stop,” I whisper, even though there’s no one here to hear it.
The reflection in the window stirs faintly, a ripple in the dark. Her face looks almost kind now. Almost sorry.
“You don’t have to hurt anymore, sweetheart,” it murmurs. “You can rest.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”
I close the notebook and slide it under the pillow. The edges are damp where my tears have fallen. My chest feels hollow — not heavy anymore, just quiet.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t hum.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. My thoughts drift like dust — weightless, endless.
I think about the first time I heard the voice. How it sounded like comfort, like safety. How I mistook it for love.
Now, I understand. It wasn’t love. It was loneliness, wearing my face. And I’m so tired of being lonely. My eyes sting, but I don’t blink. I let the tears slide down and pool in my hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “But I can’t keep fighting myself.”
The voice doesn’t answer.
For the first time, maybe it — she doesn’t have to.
The world feels softer at the edges now — like it’s folding me in, like it’s okay to let go.
The clock ticks.
The wind shifts.
The last thing I feel is the warmth of the blanket against my skin, and somewhere far away, a voice — not the reflection’s this time — just my mother’s, calling my name.
Then everything turns to black.
Chapter 12: Silence
Chapter Text
When I wake, I don’t move.
I don’t breathe at first.
I just listen.
There’s no whisper this time.
No hum hiding behind my ribs.
No voice curling through the edges of my thoughts.
Just air.
Thin, unfamiliar.
Quiet.
For a second, I think I’ve finally disappeared. That the reflection got what it wanted. That I’m gone.
Then—sound.
A soft beeping near my head.
The slow sigh of a vent.
And under it, rain.
It’s raining.
Not the storm kind—just the steady kind. Gentle. Patient. The kind that sounds like breathing.
My body feels heavy, wrapped in layers. Something tugs at my arm—a tube, taped skin.
The faint sting of antiseptic sits at the back of my throat.
I try to move my hand. It trembles. The bandages are white, clean, neat.
Someone else did them.
Someone found me.
The thought hits like a dull wave.
I blink against the too-bright light above me.
A hospital.
It has to be.
The air tastes sterile.
The sheets smell like bleach and sleep.
There’s a shape in the corner—a chair, a blanket, a person.
“Mom?”
It comes out dry, cracked. Barely a word.
The shape stirs. She lifts her head, hair messy, eyes red and swollen.
When she sees me, she exhales a sound I’ve never heard before—halfway between a sob and a prayer.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You’re awake.”
I try to speak, but my throat locks. Everything hurts, but in a distant way—like the ache lives somewhere outside of me.
Her hand finds mine. Warm. Shaking.
For a moment, I can’t meet her eyes. I don’t deserve to.
She squeezes tighter.
“You scared me,” she says softly. “God, Nattie… you scared me so much.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy.
I want to apologize, but it sticks in my chest.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she says quickly, voice trembling. “I know you didn’t.”
Silence.
The kind that doesn’t bite. Just is.
The rain keeps tapping against the window, a steady rhythm that fills the gaps between our breaths.
The sound feels real.
It feels safe.
Mom brushes hair from my forehead. Her fingers linger there.
I flinch—not because it hurts, but because it’s been so long since I’ve felt something that gentle.
“How long?”
“Two days,” she says quietly. “You lost a lot of blood. They… they weren’t sure if you’d wake up.” Her voice cracks again. “But you did.”
Two days.
It doesn’t feel real. It feels like time dissolved and left me behind.
I stare at the ceiling. The white tiles blur together. My chest feels hollow—but lighter somehow.
No voice.
No whispers.
Just me.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t hear it anymore.”
Her brow furrows. “Hear what, honey?”
“The voice.” My throat tightens. “It’s gone.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just nods, small and fragile.
Her thumb strokes over the back of my hand.
“That’s good,” she says softly. “That’s really good.”
But I see the worry behind her smile—the way her eyes keep flicking toward the monitor beside me, as if I might vanish if she looks away too long.
I want to tell her I won’t.
I want to believe it myself.
I turn toward the window.
The rain has slowed. The glass is fogged, soft and gray.
I can barely make out my reflection—just a blur of light and shadow.
No sharp grin.
No tilted head.
No too-sweet eyes.
Just me.
It doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels smaller. Quieter.
Like survival.
Mom adjusts the blanket around me, tucking it under my chin. Her hands are clumsy, but careful—the way she used to fix my sheets when I was a kid.
“Someone’s going to come talk to you tomorrow,” she says. “A therapist. She’s kind. I think you’ll like her.”
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
She smiles—tired, soft. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, okay?”
I almost believe her.
The rain starts again—lighter this time, like a lullaby. The sound fills the room, steady and endless.
I stare at the window until my eyes sting. The fog fades just enough to show my reflection again—faint, colorless, almost see-through.
For a heartbeat, I brace myself. Waiting.
But nothing moves.
No whisper.
No smile.
Just me.
Breathing.
For the first time in forever, the quiet doesn’t scare me.
It feels clean.
Like something’s been scrubbed out of me, leaving only a thin ache and a fragile kind of peace.
Mom’s still holding my hand.
I let her.
I even squeeze back.
Her eyes fill again, but she doesn’t look away.
We stay like that for a long time—just the rain, the hum of the machine, and two people learning how to breathe again.
When I close my eyes, I don’t fall into the dark.
I drift.
No voice follows.
No hum waits beneath the silence.
Just quiet.
Real, soft quiet.
Maybe she’s not doing so well right now, but, maybe, she can get better.
And for the first time, I think—maybe—I want to stay.
Chapter 13: Epilogue - 2 months later
Notes:
SOOOO this is it if you liked this in anyway shape or form i would love to hear about it <3
Chapter Text
The house feels different now.
Still quiet, but the good kind.
The kind that stretches between the walls like sunlight, warm and slow.
For a while, I used to be afraid of quiet.
It used to hum, used to whisper, used to breathe with me.
Now it just is.
I open my eyes to the smell of coffee and toast.
The light through my curtains is pale gold — soft around the edges, like the world’s decided to be gentle for once.
I stretch. My arms ache, not the kind of ache after a bad relapse, but it’s the kind of ache that means I slept deeply and well. The band on my wrist still sits there — a thin reminder, not a wound.
The clock on my nightstand blinks 8:03.
Mum must already be downstairs.
I sit up slowly, running a hand through my hair. The mirror across the room catches a sliver of my reflection. For a second, I hesitate — old habits die hard I guess — but the girl in the glass only blinks back, sleepy and real.
Just me.
And that’s enough.
I pull on a sweater and head to the kitchen. The floor creaks in the same spots it always did, but even that feels softer now, less like warning and more like memory.
Mom turns when she hears me. Her eyes brighten, surprised, then soften into a smile. The smell of detergent and lavender clings to her. She stopped smoking, I think absent mindedly.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Morning.”
My voice still sounds small, but not broken.
She’s already made breakfast — two plates, two cups of coffee. Toast, scrambled eggs, a few slices of apple.
I used to avoid this table like it was a trap.
Now I just sit.
The chair’s cool under my legs. The smell of food makes my stomach twist, but it’s not fear — it’s hunger.
Mom watches me carefully, like she’s waiting for me to change my mind.
I don’t.
I pick up a fork, take a bite of egg.
It’s warm, soft, and simple.
I swallow.
And the world doesn’t fall apart.
Her eyes glisten a little, but she looks away, pretending to sip her coffee.
“It’s good,” I say, because it is.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles, small and shaky, like she doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
We eat quietly. Not tense, not heavy — just quiet. The kind that fills in the spaces we both forgot how to share.
I glance at the window.
The light moves across the table, soft as breath. The reflection in the glass is faint, just the shapes of us sitting there — mother and daughter, still here. Still trying.
I don’t hear anything else.
No voice.
No whisper.
Only the clink of silverware, the steady rhythm of rain starting against the roof, and my heartbeat — slow, calm, mine.
Mom reaches across the table and brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“You look… brighter today.”
I shrug, but I can’t hide the small smile tugging at my lips. “I feel kind of brighter.”
“That’s good,” she says. “That’s really good.”
We finish breakfast together. When I stand to wash my plate, she doesn’t stop me.
I rinse it under warm water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. The motion feels almost peaceful.
In the window above the sink, my reflection looks back.
Not haunting.
Not hollow.
Just there.
I whisper, quietly, to no one in particular, “We’re okay.”
And for once, the silence doesn’t answer back.
It just lets me be.
And for the first time in a long time, I think I’m full.