At first, I thought talking to him would make it stop.
Make it go away.
But it didn't.
It made him stronger.
Clearer.
Like opening a window and letting the storm inside.
"Why are you still here?" I asked.
"Because you never really left."
"I'm trying to move on."
"No, you're trying to forget. That's not the same."
"Don't I deserve peace?"
"Peace is what they promised you. Not what you need."
I sat on the bathroom floor, knees to my chest.
The mirror was fogged up.
But I saw something move in it anyway.
"Are you me?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Then finally:
"I'm the part you buried in the attic."
"Why do you keep whispering to me?"
"Because you keep pretending I'm not real."
"Because silence hurts more than truth."
The notebook — the one from the house — started filling again.
Words appeared in shaky, crooked writing:
"They can't save you from yourself."
"You're not sick. You're split."
Sometimes, he says things I want to believe.
Like:
"Mama loved you. In her way."
"She didn't mean to hurt you."
"She kept you hidden because she was scared."
Other times, he's cruel.
"Your mother now? She pities you."
"You're a story they tell at dinner parties."
"You're a broken boy they want to fix — not love."
One night, I looked in the mirror and whispered:
"Am I still me?"
He answered:
"Not the way they want you to be."
I started writing letters in my journal.
To him.
To Lucas.
To me.
Sometimes I can't tell who's writing.
The handwriting changes.
The tone shifts.
But it always ends with the same sign-off:
"-L"
Last night, he said something new.
Something quiet.
Almost gentle.
"One day… you'll have to choose."
"Daniel… or me."
"Only one of us can stay."
I didn't answer.
Because deep down…
I don't know who I'd pick.