Malik didn't avoid me anymore.
That was the first sign something had changed.
But it wasn't a good change.
Before, distance meant safety.
Now—
it felt like observation.
He watched me.
Not openly.
Not obviously.
But I could feel it.
The same way I used to watch him.
Careful.
Quiet.
Waiting.
It started with small things.
I'd walk into a room—
and he'd go silent.
I'd speak—
and he'd hesitate before answering.
Like he was checking something.
Comparing something.
Like he didn't fully trust what he was seeing.
And maybe…
he shouldn't.
One afternoon, I found him in the hallway.
Leaning against the wall.
Arms crossed.
Waiting.
"For me?" I asked.
He nodded.
My chest tightened.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He just looked at me.
Really looked.
Too long.
Too carefully.
"You've been… different," he said finally.
The words felt familiar.
Too familiar.
I forced a small smile.
"I've been different for a while."
He didn't smile back.
"No," he said.
"Not like that."
Something in his tone made my stomach twist.
"Then what?" I asked.
He hesitated.
Then stepped closer.
Not touching.
But closer than he had been in days.
"You repeat things," he said.
My breath caught.
"What do you mean?"
"Like earlier," he said.
"In the kitchen. You said 'there'… but it didn't sound like you."
My fingers curled slightly.
"And just now," he continued.
"You almost said something before I asked."
"Don't answer too fast."
The voice slid into my mind.
I froze.
Because I hadn't spoken yet.
And still—
it was guiding me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said carefully.
Too carefully.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's the other thing," he said.
My chest tightened.
"You sound like you're thinking before every word," he continued.
"Like you're checking if it's the right one."
Because I am.
Or worse—
because something else is.
I stepped back.
"I'm just tired," I said.
A simple answer.
A safe answer.
But even as I said it—
"That's not true."
The voice whispered.
And for a split second—
my lips almost moved again.
To correct it.
To replace it.
To say something else entirely.
I pressed them together tightly.
Malik noticed.
Of course he did.
"You just stopped yourself," he said.
My heart dropped.
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
His voice wasn't angry.
It was worse.
Certain.
Silence stretched between us.
Heavy.
Then—
"Say something," he said.
My mind went blank.
"Say anything."
The voice.
Closer now.
Too close.
"I'm fine," I said quickly.
Too quickly.
Malik flinched slightly.
"There," he said.
"You did it again."
My hands started shaking.
"I didn't—"
But I stopped.
Because I heard it.
Clear.
Right before the words left my mouth.
"You did."
I staggered back.
Because this time—
I couldn't deny it.
The voice wasn't just reacting.
It was predicting me.
Finishing me.
Replacing me.
"What's happening to you?" Malik asked.
His voice was softer now.
Not accusing.
Afraid.
And that—
hurt more than anything.
"I don't know," I whispered.
That part was still true.
But not completely.
Because I knew enough.
Enough to understand this wasn't stopping.
Enough to know it was getting stronger.
Closer.
More precise.
"You're not… fully here," he said quietly.
The words hit hard.
Because that was exactly it.
I was here.
But not alone.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And for a moment—
just a moment—
I thought about telling him everything.
About the voice.
About the control.
About the way it was slipping into me.
But then—
"Don't."
Sharp.
Immediate.
Stronger than before.
My chest tightened.
Because this time—
it didn't feel like a suggestion.
It felt like a command.
"I'm fine," I said again.
And this time—
I wasn't sure
if I had chosen the words.
Malik didn't argue.
He just looked at me.
Long.
Careful.
Then he stepped back.
"Okay," he said.
But his voice didn't believe it.
Not even a little.
As he walked away—
I felt something shift inside me.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Like a line being crossed.
Because now—
it wasn't just me noticing the change.
He saw it too.
And once someone else sees it…
it becomes real in a way you can't take back.
I stood alone in the hallway.
Breathing slowly.
Trying to hold onto something solid.
Something that was still me.
But then—
softly—
"You're making this harder than it needs to be."
I closed my eyes.
Because I knew what that meant.
It wasn't trying to hide anymore.
It was trying to help.
And that…
was the most dangerous thing yet.