I was told that I was gone for three minutes.
Three minutes without a pulse.
Three minutes without breath.
Three minutes without me.
I don't remember a lot.
I don't remember the ambulance. I don't remember the pills. I don't even remember deciding that I didn't want to be here anymore. I only found out about the first two from the hospital staff and the latter was my own conclusion.
What I do remember is the quiet.
It wasn't silence, it was just...quiet.
But...it somehow felt thick...warm. Like being held underwater by something that hadn't wanted to drown me-just keep me.
It wasn't anything that's often been described by other people who had near death experiences. There was no light. No tunnel. No lifetime of memories flashing by.
Just the sense that there was a presence.
One that was waiting.
When I woke up, the hospital room smelled like antiseptic and stale air conditioning. A machine to my left clicked steadily, unimpressed by my resurrection.
A nurse had noticed that my eyes were open and greeted me with a smile.
"Welcome back." She greeted.
Back.
The word felt wrong then.
My throat burned when I tried to speak, so I lifted my hand instead. It felt heavier than I remembered. Like it belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing it.
Later, they told me I flatlined.
Later, they told me it was close.
Later, they told me I was lucky.
That night, when I was alone, I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the quiet.
I shouldn't have missed it.
But I did.
The room darkened as visiting hours ended. The hallway noise faded. The machines hummed. I closed my eyes.
And that's when I heard it.
Breathing.
Slow.
Measured.
Not mine.
My eyes snapped open.
The room was empty.
The sound was still there.
Inhale.
Exhale.
It wasn't coming from the room.
It was coming from inside my chest.
My heart monitor skipped once.
I pressed my palm to my sternum.
The breathing stopped.
For a long moment, there was nothing.
Then-
A whisper.
Not in my ear.
Behind my ribs.
"I waited."
My pulse spiked. The machine began to beep frantically.
"No," I whispered.
The word barely escaped my throat.
The voice felt like fingers tracing the inside of my skin.
"You left," it said. "But I did not."
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded through my veins. My vision blurred.
The monitor had flatlined for half a second.
In that half second, I was back in the quiet.
And it was closer now.
Not surrounding me.
Inside me.
When the nurses rushed in, I was screaming.
But I didn't know if it was me screaming.
Or if it was the thing that had followed me back.