It started small.
I stopped combing my hair the way they liked it.
Stopped answering questions with the "right" words.
When teachers asked how I was feeling, I said:
"Like a ghost in someone else's clothes."
They laughed.
I didn't.
At home, I began moving things.
Turning mirrors toward the walls.
Unplugging clocks.
Letting doors stay open, even the basement one.
Mom asked if I was okay.
I said, "I'm remembering things."
She didn't ask what.
She never does.
Lucas was always with me now.
In the bathroom mirror.
In the window reflections at night.
In the silence between my mother's footsteps.
"You're changing," he said.
"I know."
"They won't like it."
"I'm not doing it for them."
I wore the same sweater for seven days straight.
The one from the attic.
The one with her perfume still soaked in the sleeves.
No one noticed.
Except Lucas.
He said it smelled like surrender.
I said it smelled like proof.
In therapy, I stopped lying.
Told her about the doll with the sewn mouth.
Told her about the list.
About the floor that hummed.
About the chair that rocked.
She blinked.
Wrote things down.
Smiled in that way that therapists do.
"And how did that make you feel?"
I stared at her.
Then said:
"Hungry."
She stopped writing.
That night, I sat in front of the hallway mirror.
Held the drawing I made when I was five.
The house with no windows.
The boy inside.
Still alone.
But now I knew…
That boy wasn't trapped.
He was waiting.
For someone to remember.
For someone to come back.
For someone to wear the pain out loud.
So I folded the paper.
Put it in my pocket.
And whispered:
"Let them see."