They only get louder when I'm alone.
Lucas.
The voice.
The other me.
In public, he's quiet.
Polite.
Patient.
But when the door shuts, when the room falls silent…
He speaks.
"They act like they saved you."
"But they don't see you."
"I do."
I sit on my bed and draw.
He watches.
He guides my hand.
Tells me what colors to use.
Tells me what the drawing really means.
"Draw the house. The attic."
"Draw the cage. You remember it better than they think."
"Draw Mama."
Sometimes, I do.
Sometimes, I cry while I do.
But the drawings help me breathe.
Even when they hurt.
I tried not to talk to him for a whole day.
Stayed busy.
Read books.
Sat with my mom.
But the moment I was alone again, he returned.
"I saw what you wrote in therapy."
"Trying to forget me?"
"I'm not a symptom."
"I'm you when no one's watching."
I shouted into my pillow.
He laughed.
He doesn't always say cruel things.
Sometimes, he's gentle.
Whispers like Mama used to.
"Remember the story about the cloud who couldn't cry?"
"You loved that one."
"She read it to you five nights in a row."
"No one reads to you now."
One night, he told me:
"You don't have to be Daniel if it hurts too much."
"We can go back."
"You and me."
I whispered, "There's nothing to go back to."
He replied:
"There's always me."
That night, I dreamt I was in the attic again.
Except this time, I wasn't locked in.
The door was open.
The sky above was starless.
And Lucas was sitting by the wall.
Drawing.
He looked up.
Smiled.
And said:
"You came back."
I woke up clutching the pillow so tight, my fingers were white.
The therapist asked me the next day if I've been hearing voices.
I said no.
But I lied.
Because if I said yes, they'd try to take him away.
And I don't think I want him gone.
Because when I'm alone…
He's the only one who talks to me like I'm real.