It began with whispers.
Soft.Far away.
Like someone calling me from underwater.
Sometimes when I brushed my teeth.
Or stared too long at the mirror.
At first, I thought it was memory.
Echoes of the attic.
The way Mama used to hum.
The way I used to talk to Mr. Nibbles.
But then, it spoke back.
Clearly.
The voice was mine.
But not mine.
It said:
"They don't love you like she did."
I dropped the toothbrush.
My heart slammed into my chest.
I didn't answer.
Didn't look at the mirror.
But the voice came again.
"They're pretending. All of them."
"You know you don't belong here."
I gripped the sink.
Stared at my reflection.
My mouth was closed.
But the voice kept speaking.
"You used to be strong. In the attic. You had rules. Now you're just... a puppet."
I covered my ears.
But it kept going.
Inside my head.
At school, I zoned out.
He whispered during math.
"They look at you like you're a freak."
"You should've stayed hidden."
"Mama understood you."
I wrote notes in class and found words I didn't remember writing:
you left metraitori'm still herelucaslucaslucas
My therapist asked, "Are you sleeping?"
I lied.
Said yes.
She tilted her head. "Nightmares?"
I nodded.
But it wasn't nightmares.
It was conversations.
At night, I sat on my bed, notebook in my lap.
I asked:
"Are you real?"
And in my mind, the pen moved on its own.
"Real enough to watch you lie every day."
The next morning, I wore my old shirt.
The one from before.
Too tight.
Frayed collar.
But I felt… more me.
Even if I didn't know who that was anymore.
At lunch, a girl asked my name.
I froze.
Spoon in hand.
Mouth half open.
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know what name to give.
She smiled anyway.
Said, "You don't have to say it. I like your drawing."
Then walked away.
That night, the voice was quiet.
Until I laid down.
It whispered, almost gently:
"She's nice. But she'll leave you too."
"Everyone does."
I stared at the ceiling.
And whispered back:
"Then maybe I deserve it."