I should have been asleep hours ago,
but no matter how many times I shut my eyes, sleep refused to come. I had done everything the way I usually do—turned off the lights at 11:07 p.m., plugged in my phone, arranged my pillows the way I like them, and pulled the blanket up to my shoulders. I even told myself, firmly, that I needed to sleep because I had school in the morning. But the moment the room went dark and quiet, my thoughts grew louder.
Mira didn't come to school today.
That fact kept replaying in my head like a broken recording. It shouldn't have mattered this much. People miss school all the time. They get sick. They have appointments. Family emergencies happen. Life happens. But Mira wasn't like most people.
She never missed school.
Not unless it was serious. And even then, she would text me dramatic updates about how unfair life was or how disgusting hospital food tasted. She wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't leave me staring at her empty desk all day, wondering if I had somehow missed something important.
When I walked into class this morning and saw her chair pushed in neatly under her desk, something felt off immediately. It wasn't messy. It wasn't rushed. It looked untouched—like she had never sat there at all. At first, I assumed she was late. I even checked the door twice during first period, expecting her to slip in with an apologetic grin.
But she never did.
By lunchtime, I had checked my phone so many times that my battery dropped faster than usual. I sent her a message at 12:43 p.m.—a casual one, something light.
Are you alive?
She didn't respond.
After school, I tried again.
Did I miss something?
Still nothing.
By the time it was evening, the silence started to feel intentional. I called her around 8:15 p.m., pressing the phone tightly to my ear as it rang. Each ring stretched longer than the last. I counted them without meaning to. One. Two. Three. Four.
Then voicemail.
That was when the quiet discomfort began to bloom into something heavier. It wasn't panic yet. It didn't feel dramatic or explosive. It was subtler than that—a slow, creeping unease that settled in my stomach and refused to move.
Mira wasn't the type to ignore me.
We had been best friends since fifth grade. We knew each other's schedules, secrets, fears, and embarrassing childhood stories. We had promised each other that no matter what happened, we would always say when something was wrong.
Unless she was mad at me.
That thought tightened something inside my chest.
Yesterday, she had seemed different. Quieter. Distracted. During math class, she kept glancing toward the hallway like she was expecting someone—or avoiding someone. When I asked if she was okay, she smiled, but it wasn't her usual smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm fine," she had said softly.
People always say that when they aren't.
And I didn't push her.
Now, lying in bed at 2:17 a.m., staring at the red glow of my alarm clock, I couldn't stop replaying that moment. The way her voice sounded slightly forced. The way she left school quickly without waiting for me, which she never does. The way I let her walk away.
The guilt felt heavier at night. In the dark, every small memory stretches into something bigger. Every decision feels like it could have changed everything.
What if she needed me and I didn't notice?
What if she tried to tell me something and I brushed it off?
The questions looped endlessly, feeding into one another until my chest felt tight and uncomfortable. It wasn't a sharp pain. It didn't steal my breath. It just sat there, heavy and constant, like an invisible weight pressing from the inside.
That was why I couldn't sleep.
It wasn't just worry.
It was the not knowing.
And when you don't know what's wrong, your mind fills the silence with the worst possibilities
I didn't sleep.
Not at 11:43 p.m.
Not at 12:58 a.m.
Not at 1:36 a.m.
And definitely not at 2:17 a.m.
The red numbers on my clock glowed in the darkness, small but impossible to ignore. They painted a faint crimson blur across the ceiling, as if time itself was watching me.
I lay still, staring upward, my eyes burning but refusing to close.
My mind wouldn't stop.
It replayed the day in fragments — small, ordinary moments that shouldn't have mattered. The way someone looked at me in the hallway. The pause before a friend answered me. A laugh that echoed a little too long in my head once I was alone.
Nothing happened.
Nothing big.
Nothing dramatic.
So why does it feel like something did?
I turned onto my side and pulled the blanket closer to my chin. The fabric felt heavy, but not comforting. My thoughts kept circling, landing on things that probably meant nothing — but felt like everything.
You're overthinking again.
You always do this.
But that didn't explain the weight in my chest.
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't physical.
It was just there.
A dull pressure beneath my ribs, like an invisible bruise. Something pressing from the inside out. I placed my hand flat against my chest as if I could calm it down, as if I could press the feeling back into silence.
It didn't move.
My breathing grew uneven.
I blinked rapidly, but tears slipped out anyway, sliding into my hairline and soaking into the pillow beneath me. I turned my face quickly so the pillow would muffle the sound.
I didn't even know why I was crying.
That scared me more than anything.
Because when you don't know what's hurting you, you don't know how to fix it.
Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe I'm being dramatic.
Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and everything will feel normal again.
But the ache felt too real to ignore.
2:17 a.m.
That's when I noticed the silence.
Not the usual quiet of a sleeping house. Not the soft hum of night that feels safe and distant.
This silence felt different.
It felt close.
I held my breath without meaning to.
The hallway light outside my room was off. I had checked it before going to bed. Twice. I always did that when I felt uneasy.
Still, something about the air beyond my door felt thicker. Heavier. Like the darkness wasn't empty.
And then—
A sound.
So faint I almost convinced myself it hadn't happened.
A subtle shift.
Right outside my door.
My heart skipped.
It's nothing.
It's the house settling.
It's the wind.
Another sound.
A soft scrape.
Not loud. Not aggressive. Just enough to make my entire body go still.
The ache in my chest disappeared instantly, replaced by something colder. Fear spread through me slowly, like cold water soaking into fabric.
I pushed myself up into a sitting position, my eyes locked on the outline of my bedroom door. In the darkness, it looked taller than usual. Straighter. Watching.
The room felt smaller.
The air felt colder.
The silence outside no longer felt empty.
It felt occupied.
My pulse started pounding in my ears.
Don't move.
If I don't move, it isn't real.
If I don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist.
I strained my ears, trying to separate imagination from reality. The house made sounds sometimes. Old wood shifted. Pipes creaked.
But this felt intentional.
Another faint noise.
Closer.
My throat went dry. I swallowed, but it didn't help.
What if someone is there?
The thought came uninvited, sharp and immediate.
What if something is there?
My mind began racing.
No one would be here. All the doors were locked. My parents were asleep. Nothing had happened.
Nothing.
And yet my body refused to believe that.
Then—
A soft thud in the hallway.
I gasped.
The sound wasn't loud, but it was clear. Definite.
Something had moved.
I dropped back onto my pillow so quickly that my head hit it hard. My heart began pounding violently against my ribs, louder than it had all night.
No. No. No.
My breathing turned shallow.
I pulled the blanket over my shoulders and squeezed my eyes shut.
Pretend.
Just pretend you're asleep.
If I don't react, maybe it will go away.
If I don't open my eyes, maybe it isn't there.
My heart was racing so loudly I was sure it could be heard from outside the door. Each beat felt like a knock from the inside.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Slow it down.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I tried to make my breathing steady, like someone deep in sleep. I forced my muscles to relax even though every part of me felt tense.
Please let it be nothing.
Tears that had dried earlier made my cheeks feel tight and cold. I pressed my lips together to stop them from trembling.
The silence stretched again.
Longer this time.
Heavier.
It pressed against the door like something leaning its weight there.
Listening.
Waiting.
My body remained still beneath the blanket, but my mind was screaming.
Open your eyes.
No. Don't.
What if something is standing there?
What if something is watching you through the crack beneath the door?
I squeezed my eyes tighter.
I refused to look.
If I didn't see it, I could pretend it wasn't real.
Minutes passed.
Or maybe seconds.
Time felt distorted, stretched thin like it could snap at any moment.
Gradually, my breathing slowed — not because I felt safe, but because exhaustion was beginning to drag me under.
My thoughts blurred at the edges.
The fear didn't leave.
It just settled.
Even as sleep slowly crept closer…
Even as my body began to give in…
I knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
The silence outside my door wasn't empty.
And whatever had moved in the hallway—
Hadn't left.