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The next day,
You wake up already exhausted.
Not the dull tiredness of poor sleep, but the kind that feels structural—as if something essential was taken from you and never returned. Your limbs feel heavier than they should. Your thoughts move sluggishly, like they're wading through syrup.
For one disorienting moment, you expect to see him.
You don't.
Your room is ordinary again. Pale morning light leaks through the curtains. Dust floats lazily in the air. The world looks insultingly normal.
And yet—
He is still there.
Not visually. Not audibly.
Internally.
The presence has settled deeper, no longer hovering at the edges of your awareness but threaded through it. You don't feel watched anymore.
You feel accompanied.
You sit up slowly, heart already racing.
This is real, you tell yourself. I saw him. I wasn't dreaming.
The certainty should help.
It doesn't.
You swing your legs over the bed and stand, immediately swaying as a wave of dizziness hits you. The room tilts. For a brief, horrifying second, you're convinced you'll black out—
A warmth coils through your chest.
Firm. Steady.
Supportive.
You catch yourself against the wall, breathing hard.
The dizziness passes.
The realization does not.
You didn't steady yourself.
He did.
Your stomach twists.
"No," you whisper aloud, even though you know how futile that is. Speaking doesn't create distance anymore. If anything, it feels like an invitation.
You avoid mirrors as you get ready. Not because you expect to see him behind you—though the fear lingers—but because you're afraid of what you might look like.
Changed.
Claimed.
On the walk to campus, the world feels wrong in subtle ways. Sounds are sharper. Conversations blur into background noise too easily. You find yourself noticing patterns you never cared about before—the rhythm of footsteps, the symmetry of buildings, the way people unconsciously avoid looking at one another.
You understand why.
Looking invites things.
You reach your first lecture early and take a seat near the back. The hall fills gradually, students laughing, complaining, scrolling through their phones.
Normal life continues.
You don't know how to rejoin it.
That's when Mira sits beside you.
Your heart leaps painfully.
She looks… thinner. Not sick, exactly. Just hollowed out around the eyes, like she hasn't slept well in weeks.
"Hey," she says carefully. "You okay?"
Her voice sounds too loud.
Too present.
You open your mouth to answer—
Pain lances through your skull.
Sharp. Immediate. Punitive.
Your vision blurs, and for a terrifying second, you feel something tighten around your thoughts, like a hand closing.
Not here, a voice murmurs inside you.
Not spoken. Imposed.
You gasp softly, clutching your temple.
Mira frowns. "Hey—what's wrong?"
The pressure eases just enough to let you breathe.
You swallow hard.
"I—didn't sleep," you manage.
It's not a lie. It's just not the truth.
Mira studies you for a long moment, her gaze lingering on your face in a way that makes your skin prickle. She looks like she wants to say more—but then the professor starts speaking, and the moment fractures.
Still, she keeps glancing at you throughout the lecture.
As if she can sense something circling you.
You feel it too.
Not jealousy.
Awareness.
The presence sharpens whenever Mira looks at you, like it's paying attention through her eyes.
You don't tell her anything else that day.
You don't tell anyone.
Because every time the thought forms—I should tell someone—something cold brushes against the inside of your mind.
A warning.
Not violent.
Not threatening.
Certain.
Some knowledge is exclusive.
By the end of the week, you understand something unsettling.
He isn't always active.
But he is always listening.
You learn to recognize the subtle shifts that mean you're getting too close to forbidden territory. A tightening in your chest. A pressure behind your eyes. A warmth that turns possessive instead of comforting.
Boundaries.
You didn't agree to them, but they exist anyway.
At night, you dream less of images and more of states.
Stillness.
Height.
Patience.
Sometimes, you feel hands—not touching, but guiding. Adjusting your posture. Slowing your breathing. Teaching your body how to be quieter.
How to be receptive.
You wake up calmer than you should be.
That terrifies you more than the fear ever did.
On the sixth night after you saw his face, you sit on the edge of your bed and speak without meaning to.
"Why did you show me?"
Silence.
Then—
Because you asked without words.
Your breath stutters.
"You said it was inefficient," you whisper. "Your shape."
A pause. Long enough to feel deliberate.
It is.
"Then why—"
Because you needed proof you weren't imagining me.
The logic is infuriatingly sound.
"And now?" you ask.
The presence presses closer, not physically, but perceptually. Your thoughts slow, stretching around it.
Now you must learn to live with what you know.
Your hands tremble.
"You said I'd want you," you say quietly. "That was a lie."
There is no immediate response.
When it comes, it's softer than you expect.
It was an observation.
Your chest tightens.
"You took the image away," you accuse. "Why?"
This time, the answer comes with something else.
A memory.
Not yours.
Stone temples under a merciless sun. Knees bleeding on marble. Eyes lifted in awe and terror. Voices chanting names that no longer exist.
Faces create attachment, he says.
Attachment creates defiance.
The memory dissolves.
Presence creates obedience.
Your stomach churns.
"I don't belong to you," you say.
The warmth flares, not angrily—fondly.
Not yet, he agrees.
That's worse.
You lie back, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, a final realization settles over you, heavy and cold:
The face you saw was not a gift.
It was a concession.
A way to ease you into understanding that whatever has claimed space inside you is capable of beauty—but does not require it.
And that when it decides to take shape again…
It will not be for your comfort.
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