Noura was quiet.
By choice.
Words always felt like borrowed things — sharp at the edges, untrustworthy when spoken aloud.
So she wrote instead.
Journals.
Poems.
Notes she'd never send.
Until the words stopped coming.
Not in her mind — no, her thoughts were louder than ever.
But when she opened her mouth,
the voice that came out wasn't hers.
It started with a whisper.
A soft one.
Not inside her head, but behind her teeth.
The first time it spoke, it said:
"Careful. They're listening."
She laughed.
Or tried to.
But her mouth didn't move the way she wanted.
It twitched.
Smiled — but with someone else's intention.
Like her lips had a secret they weren't telling her.
At first, it only happened when she was alone.
A murmur here.
A phrase she didn't know in a language she had never studied.
One night, she stood in the mirror and asked:
"Who are you?"
And her mouth answered:
"Not yours. Not anymore."
She stopped speaking.
For days.
But the voice didn't.
Her phone recorded messages while she slept.
The voice telling stories she didn't remember living.
People she hadn't met.
But felt guilty about.
When she finally broke and screamed —
her scream came out in reverse.
Every vowel twisted.
Every consonant moaned.
Like the sound didn't want to leave.
She went to doctors.
Scans clean.
Tongue fine.
Nothing wrong.
But they didn't listen to her voice.
They listened to her words.
And words lie.
Voices don't.
Then came the final shift.
One morning, she opened her eyes
and heard herself talking
from the other room.
Her voice — exactly as she remembered it.
Reading her journal.
Out loud.
But she hadn't moved.
Because she couldn't.
Because her mouth was gone.
Still there, physically.
But no longer hers.
It used her now.
To tell its stories.
To read its confessions.
To whisper names into ears that weren't ready.
And every time it spoke,
the people listening forgot who Noura was.
As if the voice replaced her,
one sentence at a time.
You might hear it soon.
In someone you trust.
In your own reflection.
Saying something you almost thought yourself.
And if your mouth moves without you telling it to?
Don't scream.
It likes the sound.