Page 97 of Hidden Echoes

Dr. Giggles would tilt his head at me, that same damn expression he always wears when I talk about my past. Like he’s waiting for me to crumble. But I don’t feel sorry for it. People expect… something from me when I bring it up—guilt? Sadness? Anger? I don’t have any of that.

I hated my life before. Now it’s better. End of story.

The only thing I know for sure is that if I ever go back to my father, it won’t just be bad—it’ll be different.

And not in a way I’ll survive.

I think about watching my show, but it feels wrong to do it without Zane.

So instead, I sink deeper into bed, my limbs too heavy, my thoughts too restless.

My brain skips between TikToks, each one blending into the next until I don’t even register what I’m watching anymore.

The heat presses against the walls, thick and suffocating. It makes my skin feel wrong, like it’s too tight, like it belongs to someone else.

At some point, my stomach starts growling, loud enough that I can’t ignore it. I drag myself out of bed, the floor too cold against my bare feet, and wander to the kitchen. The fridge hums.

I get this weird thought that maybe it’s talking to me, trying to say something just on the edge of hearing. I blink, shake my head. I’m just tired. Or hungry. Or both.

I don’t feel like going outside. The sun looks too bright, almost artificial, like someone cranked the saturation up too high.

The heat always makes me a little sad, or maybe just... off. Like I’m standing slightly to the left of myself. Like if I turn too fast, I’ll catch a glimpse of the version of me that isn’t real.

Some days, life feels like that—like I’m slightly out of sync with reality, like the world moves a second ahead of me, and I’m left grasping at echoes of things that have already happened.

The heat doesn’t help. It sticks to my skin, settles in my chest, makes my thoughts slow and syrupy.

It turns the walls into something else—too soft, like they might melt if I touch them, or maybe they’re just breathing when I’m not looking.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. My vision snaps back into place, but the sensation lingers.

I open the fridge, but for a second, it doesn’t feel like mine. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s kitchen. I hesitate before grabbing the juice carton, half expecting to see a name written on it in someone else's handwriting. You’re just tired. I shake off the thought, but it sticks like cobwebs.

The air buzzes.

Not loud, but constant, like a radio just out of tune.

I used to think it was the sound of silence, but I know better now.

My head gets like this sometimes—filled with static, with whispers that aren’t quite voices. I try not to listen too hard. Sometimes, if I do, I hear something I don’t want to.

I pour the juice into a glass, watching the liquid swirl. The color looks off for a moment, too thick, too dark, like blood under fluorescent lights. My stomach clenches. I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them. It’s fine. It’s normal. You know this happens.

Some days, I feel okay. Other days, I feel like a glitch in my own story.

How can I explain that to people?

Like if I press too hard on the edges of reality, it might crumble away, and I’ll see what’s underneath.

Well, life isn’t all about glitter and sunshine—even the brightest girl has her dim days.

At least it’s been a while since I’ve conjured up animated characters that don’t exist—or my dead brother.

Sometimes, I can tell they’re just in my head, especially when they’re fictional, like echoes of a dream I haven’t fully shaken off. Other times… not so much.

Reality blurs at the edges, and I have to pick apart what’s real and what’s just my mind filling in the gaps. But being with Zane is different. It’s like a heavy fog lifts, like some kind of quiet magic wraps around my senses, grounding me.

When I’m with him, people are just people—not warped figures, not shifting shapes or things pretending to be human. Just themselves.

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