It didn't happen all at once.
That's the worst part.
If it had been sudden—violent—obvious—
maybe I could have fought it.
But it wasn't.
It was small.
Almost unnoticeable.
At first.
I was in the kitchen.
Morning.
Light coming through the window in soft, uneven lines.
Everything looked normal.
Felt normal.
Malik was there too.
Standing by the counter, struggling to open a jar with one hand.
His arm still healing.
Still because of me.
I stayed by the doorway.
Like always now.
Far enough not to touch.
Close enough to watch.
"You need help?" I asked.
My voice sounded… fine.
Normal.
He hesitated.
Then nodded once.
"Yeah."
I stepped forward carefully.
Slowly.
Like approaching something fragile.
"Just put it down," I said.
"I'll open it."
He did.
Our hands didn't touch.
I made sure of that.
Always.
I took the jar.
Twisted.
It opened easily.
Too easily.
I frowned slightly.
But handed it back anyway.
"There," I said.
He took it.
"Thanks."
Then—
he paused.
Something in his expression shifted.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
He just… looked at me.
Too closely.
"You said that weird," he said finally.
My chest tightened.
"Said what?"
"There."
I blinked.
"What do you mean?"
He shook his head slightly.
"I don't know… it just didn't sound like you."
A cold feeling spread through me.
"Careful."
The voice.
Soft.
Close.
I froze.
Malik frowned.
"You okay?"
I nodded too quickly.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
But I wasn't.
Because I hadn't thought the word.
"There."
I had just said it.
And now—
I couldn't remember deciding to.
Later that day—
it happened again.
I was in my room.
Sitting on the floor.
Trying not to think.
Trying not to listen.
My phone buzzed beside me.
A message.
From Lina.
Are you okay?
I stared at the screen.
Didn't reply.
It buzzed again.
You've been acting really strange. You can talk to me.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I didn't want to answer.
Didn't want to pull anyone else into this.
But then—
My hand moved.
Not fast.
Not forced.
Just… moved.
Typing.
I'm fine.
I blinked.
That wasn't what I wanted to say.
I stared at the message.
Then—
another one appeared.
You don't need to worry.
My heart dropped.
I hadn't typed that.
My fingers were still.
Frozen above the screen.
"That's better."
The voice again.
Closer this time.
Almost pleased.
"No," I whispered.
I grabbed the phone.
Deleted the messages quickly.
Typed again—
this time forcing every movement.
I'm not okay.
Sent.
My breathing was uneven now.
Because something had just happened.
Something I couldn't explain.
I hadn't just heard it.
It had acted.
Through me.
That night—
I didn't stay in my room.
I couldn't.
The walls felt too close.
The air too heavy.
I went downstairs.
Sat on the couch.
Hands clenched together tightly.
Trying to feel in control.
Trying to stay present.
But then—
"You should sleep."
The words slipped out of my mouth.
Soft.
Calm.
I froze.
Because I hadn't meant to say them.
Across the room—
Malik looked up.
"What?" he asked.
My throat tightened.
"I… didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did," he said slowly.
"You told me to go to sleep."
"He looks tired."
The voice.
Layered over my thoughts.
Blending with them.
"I didn't mean—" I started.
But my voice cut off.
Because suddenly—
for a split second—
I wasn't sure
which part of me had spoken.
Malik stood up slowly.
"You're scaring me again," he said.
The words hit hard.
Familiar.
Painful.
But this time—
I didn't argue.
Because I understood something new.
Something worse.
Before—
I was afraid of hurting him.
Now—
I wasn't the only one in control anymore.
I stood up slowly.
Took a step back.
"You should go to your room," I said.
My voice steady.
Careful.
Controlled.
But inside—
panic was rising.
Because I couldn't tell—
if that one
had been me.
Malik hesitated.
Then nodded slowly.
And left.
The moment he disappeared—
I collapsed back onto the couch.
My hands shaking uncontrollably now.
"It's getting worse," I whispered.
"It's getting closer."
I closed my eyes tightly.
"No," I said.
But the truth was already there.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
This wasn't just something following me anymore.
It wasn't just watching.
It wasn't just speaking.
It was learning
how to be me.
And piece by piece—
moment by moment—
I was losing
where I ended
and it began.