Prologue
(Zia's POV)
There are two chairs at my table.
One for me. One for the person only I can see. They say that's strange. But they don't see what I see. They don't hear the voice that whispers my name when the world gets too loud.
I do. And maybe that makes me wrong. Or broken. Or whatever word they scribble in red ink behind closed doors. But I'm not alone. Not really.
Sometimes, I forget how long I've lived this way, with shadows that feel more real than sunlight, and smiles that bloom without a reason. Sometimes I forget which parts of me are mine… and which parts belong to the silence I fill with make-believe people and made-up comfort.
But I remember this: No one ever stayed. No one ever looked at me like I was whole.
Until he did. And suddenly, the world tilted. Not into madness, but into something softer. Something terrifying.
Hope.
Chapter one
From the Male Protagonist's (Arlen) POV
What's your definition of normal? I've never figured that out. But I know I'm not it..
My mom reminds me often enough, with words, with silence, with that tired look she wears like perfume. For a long time, I thought I was broken. That I was the only one the world was unfair to.
Until I saw her. Zia.
Why? Because I love chaos. I want to see the world burn literally. People's fear? It excites me.
I can't remember when it started. But none of that matters now.
Because now… there's her. My little muse. I've been stalking her.Yeah, stalking. No point sugarcoating it. I moved here a few months ago. This town was supposed to give me a fresh start whatever that means. With nothing to keep me grounded, I started walking around the neighborhood. That's when I heard the whispers.
The Smiling Girl.
That's what they call her. Zia. Moved here about six years ago. Lives alone. No friends, no family, just her. Her mom drops by with supplies sometimes. The neighbors call her strange, off. Some Said she talks to herself, smiles for no reason, gestures like she's having a full-blown conversation… with air.
I brushed it off at first. People talk. They exaggerate. Until I saw her. It was just a glance. A glance that turned into a full three-minute stare. Her eyes caught me. Not just their color, it was something else. Like the silence right before a thunderstorm. Heavy. Unreadable. Beautiful.
I didn't plan to follow her. It just happened. Something in me clicked. Me?. a loner, a ghost in this world, wanted to be near her.
I kept my distance. But then I saw her do something that made the air freeze around me. She tilted her head… looked beside her, as if someone stood there.Why Not me. I was behind her, hidden.
And then… she spoke. " weren't you in school today?"
"Oh, working again? I already told you to ask me for money when you need it."
She reached into the air, tapping something.. someone? like she was comforting them.
"Be careful when crossing the road."
"Don't go out at night."
I stood frozen. Not scared, not really. Just… shocked.
I've talked to myself before. Who hasn't? But this., this was something else. This was commitment. A full dialogue. With no one.
I had to see more. So I kept watching. Eleven days now.
Some days she's quiet, like a child lost in thought. Other days, she talks and laughs with this invisible presence, while cooking, while cleaning, while writing. Yeah, I watch her write. From the street, through her window. It's a diary, maybe. I don't know. But I want to know.
She cooks for two. Plates the food. Talks. Waits. Then throws the untouched portion away, as if someone actually ate it.
And the cleanliness., god, she's obsessed. Even more than I am. Me? I can't sleep on a bed unless it's perfectly made. I won't eat from plates that aren't white. Can't stand colors, they kill my appetite. But her?
She's worse. And that makes her fascinating. The more I watch her, the more I ache to know her. Not out of pity. Not even out of love. But out of something darker, deeper. A need to unravel the mystery of her madness… because maybe it'll help me understand my own.
I used to think I was the only one who was messed up.
Until I met her.
Chapter two
Arlen's pov
My name is Arlen. Arlen Matthew.
Born privileged, or so they say. I mean, look at me. The face, the build, I look like I've had it easy. call me narcissistic, I don't care. I've learned to weaponize the illusion. At seven, my life was picture-perfect.
Mom, soft-spoken, warm, always humming some old song in the kitchen. Dad, clean-shaven, ambitious, the kind of man who left early for work and came home in time for dinner and bedtime stories. We laughed. We ate together. We were the textbook definition of normal.
Until I turned nine. One night, Dad came home drunk. His eyes weren't the same. He slammed the door, stumbled in, and accused Mom of cheating. Repeatedly. Obsessively. Like it was rehearsed.
Then he said something that burned into my memory:
"Is he even mine?"
I watched my mother's lips tremble. She didn't deny it. Just a soft, broken, "I'm sorry." And in her eyes… shame. Guilt. Confirmation.
That night, something in me cracked. The world I thought I lived in crumbled. After that, everything changed. No more dinners. No more laughter. Dad came home late, and when he did, he was either silent or violent. And when he was violent, it was always me on the receiving end. Punches. Slaps. Kicks. He called me a bastard. Told my mom to return me to "the man she whored with." Said I was a mistake. An anchor dragging down his life. I started to doubt it myself, was I really his? But then I'd catch my reflection: his jawline, his eyes, his rage.
I went to school with bruises. Purple-blue smudges that teachers ignored and classmates whispered about. I used to pray he'd die on his way home. That some drunk driver would do me a favor. That I'd be free. My mom tried. In her own twisted way. On the worst days, she'd throw herself over me to shield me from him, which only made him angrier.
He'd scream at her but never laid a hand on her. He couldn't. He still loved her. So he used me instead, his human punching bag. His daily therapy.
One night, when I was eleven, Mom gave me an injection.
Didn't explain, just said, "This will help." And it did. That night, when Dad came home drunk and started again, I curled up in the corner. Fetal position. Silent. Detached. I didn't feel a thing. Not even when his belt cracked across my back. I didn't cry. And when it was over, I slept like I hadn't in years.
That became the new normal. The beatings didn't stop. But the pain stopped mattering. By the time I was thirteen, I didn't fear the violence. Some nights, I even looked forward to it, because at least it meant something was real. The rest of the world felt like static background noise.
But pain? That was sharp. Focused. Alive.
Chapter three
Arlen's POV
There's something about madness that pulls you in when you stare at it long enough. At first, you tell yourself it's curiosity. Then it becomes a distraction. Then it starts to look like home. That's what Zia became for me. A mirror. A question I couldn't answer.
I've been watching her for weeks now. Always from a distance, behind the hedge across her house, the cracked fence at the end of the road, sometimes across the street pretending to scroll through my phone. She's predictable. Her routines are precise, mechanical even. But it's the interruptions in those routines that keep me tethered to her.
Zia talks to someone who isn't there. Not the half-muttered kind of talking people do when they think out loud.
No. She talks like there's a person. A real, tangible person beside her.
One afternoon, I found her sitting on her porch. Legs crossed, sunlight brushing her cheek. She tilted her head toward the empty space beside her and said: "I'm not mad at you, you know. You were scared. I get scared too." Then silence. She nodded, as if listening. "No. I didn't cry. I almost did, but I didn't."
Another pause. "Yeah… I know you hate it when I cry." She laughed after that. A light, fluttering thing. The kind that doesn't belong in a conversation with air. She smiled down at her lap, brushed nothing off her jeans like someone had playfully flicked crumbs at her.
And I watched, unmoving, breath caught in my throat.
Another time, she was walking down the street, arms full of groceries. She stopped just before crossing and said:
"You're walking too close to the edge again."
Then, she reached her hand out, just slightly, and pulled nothing backward. Like she was tugging on someone's sleeve.
"You promised you'd be careful."
She looked down, scoldingly, like a mother catching a child. Then smiled. A little proud. A little tired.
At night, she writes. That's the part I always wait for. The way her pen moves, it's fast, aggressive, desperate sometimes. Like she's not writing thoughts, but holding them back from tearing through her.
Once, I saw her stop mid-sentence. She looked beside her, whispered, "Can I write that?" Waited. Then nodded. And kept writing.
I started wondering what she was seeing. Who was it, in her world? Was it a ghost? A hallucination? A coping mechanism? Was it a part of her that splintered off and came to life? I started questioning everything. My eyes began filling in shapes beside her. A shadow near her left shoulder. A space on the swing that dipped just slightly. Sometimes, I almost heard the other side of the conversation. Like a radio tuned just a little too low.
And then there was the park. I followed her there one evening. She had a book in one hand, a sandwich in the other. She sat beneath the same tree every time. But this time, she split the sandwich in half. Set one half beside her. She didn't touch hers. Not yet, She looked at the other piece and said: "You always eat too fast."
Waited. "No, it's not burnt. It's toasted." Then… she picked up her half, took a bite. Smiled at nothing. Laughed. A belly laugh. The kind people laugh when they're happy. Really happy. And when she was done, she collected the untouched sandwich, looked at it solemnly like it had served its purpose, and threw it in the trash.
I watched the trash can for ten full minutes after she left. Just stood there, staring at a half-eaten sandwich that no one touched.
Every day, she makes less sense. And yet… the more she doesn't make sense, the more I want to make sense of her. Because whatever world she lives in, she's not alone. Not the way I've always been. Maybe she's not crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just tired of being alone in my head.
Because lately, when I see her talk to nothing, I catch myself imagining what the other voice sounds like. And sometimes… I almost envy her.
Chapter four
Arlen's POV (The first real encounter.)
I didn't plan it. Not the timing. Not the words. Hell, I didn't even know if I was ready. But sometimes, the universe throws you a bone. Or maybe just a dare.
I was walking past the bookstore two blocks from her apartment. Just walking, not stalking, not this time, anyway. I had headphones on, no music playing. Just white noise, like I always do when I need to feel less human. And then, there she was.
Zia. Carrying a brown paper bag, hugging it like it held secrets. Her steps were light, hair loose over her shoulders, face turned toward the sun like she belonged to it. I almost turned around. Almost. But she spotted me. And smiled. Not the haunting kind. Just… soft. Familiar. The way people smile at neighbors they've never spoken to. "Hey," she said, stopping right in front of me.
Hey? My mouth opened before I could think. "Hey."
Brilliant. A man of words.
"I've seen you around," she said, adjusting the bag. "You live near?"
"Yeah. Building right across from yours," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral, like I hadn't been watching her talk to air for the past three weeks.
"Oh," she said. "Nice."
That was it. No suspicion. No questions. Just… nice.
I glanced at the bag. "Books?"
"Always," she smiled. "They get heavy, but they're worth it."
"You work at the store?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm just an addict."
We stood there for a moment. It was too easy. She was too normal.
"Arlen," I said, offering my hand. She looked at it, then shook it gently. Her palm was cold, but dry. Firm grip.
"Zia."
I almost laughed. Like I didn't know. She tilted her head slightly. "You're new here?"
"Yeah. Few months. Still learning the streets."
"Well," she said, walking past me, "don't take 7th after 9 p.m., unless you like loose dogs and suspicious shadows."
I turned to walk beside her without asking if I could.
"You know the area well."
She shrugged. "I've been here long enough. This place… grows on you."
I almost said like mold. But I bit my tongue. We walked in silence for a few steps. And then it happened.
Zia glanced to her left, where no one stood, and smiled.
"Okay, okay," she murmured to nothing, laughing. "I won't embarrass you."
She looked back at me like nothing happened. I blinked.
"Sorry," she said casually. "Sometimes I talk to myself."
Right. Sure.
"No judgment," I said, masking my curiosity. "I talk to myself too. But usually just to win arguments."
That made her laugh for real. A clear, bright sound. When we got to her building, she paused.
"Nice meeting you, Arlen," she said, turning toward her door. "Maybe I'll see you again?"
"Yeah," I said. "Hopefully."
The Second Encounter, Something doesn't add up.
It happened two days later. "Accidentally" again. I was coming out of the corner café, she was headed in.
"Hey, Zia." She smiled like she'd expected to see me. "Arlen, right?"
"Guilty." She held the door open. "Want to grab coffee? I'm waiting for someone, but they're late." I didn't hesitate. She ordered chamomile tea. No caffeine. "Messes with my sleep," she said. "And I write late." "You're a writer?" She tilted her head. "Yeah. Not the starving kind, luckily." "Oh. What do you write?" "Fiction. Short stories. A couple of novels." "Anything I'd know?" "Maybe," she said vaguely. "I write under a pseudonym." My curiosity flared. "Mystery author?" She grinned. "More like anonymity keeps me sane."
I nodded, filing that away like a criminal building a profile. I would find out who she was. Read everything. We sat outside, breeze tugging at her hair. She talked like a regular girl. Smart, witty, even charming. Not a single odd look to the side. No whispered comments to shadows. Just coffee and sunlight and two people talking like they'd met by chance.
But I didn't believe it. Not all of it. Because I've seen her dish food for ghosts. I've seen her cry and laugh with no one. And now, she's just a girl?
No. Something's off. Something doesn't add up. And that's when I decided, I'd stay close. Get closer. Slowly. Not to expose her. Not yet. But to understand her. Because Zia… She's playing normal. And I've spent my whole life pretending the same. She's not alone in her madness anymore. Not anymore.
Chapter five
Arlen's POV (The calm before anything.)
Zia has a weird way of being unforgettable. Not dramatic, not flashy. She just lingers. Like the scent of pages from an old library. You don't notice it clinging to your clothes until you're already out the door.
We ran into each other again the next week. This time, at the park. I was on my usual aimless walk. I've found those helpul when my thoughts start crawling under my skin. And there she was Zia sitting under a tree, headphones on, sketchbook open. She wasn't drawing. Just scribbling. She looked up, smiled, waved. Like we were friends. So I sat beside her.
That's how it began. Small talk. Real talk. Long silences that weren't uncomfortable. The kind of quiet where you feel seen without being stared at. She asked if I read fiction. I lied and said yes. She offered to lend me a few of her books. "Nothing groundbreaking," she said with a shrug. "Just stories." Three days later, she handed me two paperbacks. No title on the covers. Just her pseudonym Zee
I devoured them that night. They were good. Not the kind of good that tries too hard just quietly beautiful. One was about a widowed clockmaker stuck in a town where time literally froze. Another about a girl with no voice who wrote letters to trees, believing they were alive. No madness. No ghosts. No whispers. Just aching, careful, brilliant fiction. I didn't sleep that night. Not because of the stories. But because I couldn't find her in them Not a trace of the girl who dishes food for no one. Not a flicker of the girl who laughed with the air. Nothing. It was like that Zia didn't exist. Maybe she never did. We hung out more after that.
Café trips turned into lazy walks. Walks turned into late conversations under flickering streetlamps. She told me about her favorite movies. Her fear of deep water. Her childhood spent in boarding schools. She liked spicy food but had zero spice tolerance. Said thunderstorms made her feel safe. "They sound like the sky breathing," she said once.
Every little thing she said made her more real. More… normal. So normal that I started doubting myself.
Maybe I imagined it. The voices. The gestures. The empty plate thrown away with too much care. Maybe I wanted to see something broken in her because I was broken. Maybe I'm the one who sees ghosts where there aren't any. Because now, when I'm around her, nothing slips. She's consistent. Calm. Completely sane. And that makes her even harder to figure out. Sometimes I find myself staring too hard. Searching for a crack. A tremble. Anything. But she always holds her gaze. Smiles softly. Asks me how my day went. Like a normal girl. And maybe that's the scariest thing of all. Because monsters are supposed to look like monsters.
But what if the most terrifying ones are the ones who look just like us?
Chapter six
Arlen's POV (The mask always slips. Eventually.)
I didn't plan to ask her out. I don't do dates. I don't even do people. But with Zia, things were different. I'd gotten used to hearing her laugh, to the way she tilted her head when she was curious. Her voice had a way of settling the chaos in my chest. No one had ever made me feel like I wanted to stay.
Until her. So I asked her. Blunt, no ceremony. "Go out with me sometime." She looked at me like she was decoding the words, then gave that calm, unreadable smile. "Like a date?" I shrugged. "Like two people who don't hate each other. That counts, right?"
She agreed. But in typical Zia fashion, she flipped the script. A week later, she invited me out instead.
"A book date," she called it.
She took me to this quiet little place tucked between a florist and a bike shop. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Mismatched armchairs. The scent of old pages and clove tea. We talked. Laughed. She told me stories behind her stories, nothing too deep, but enough to pull me in. And I realized I wasn't just curious about her anymore. I liked her. Not in the way I usually like things. chaotic, self-serving, fleeting. This was different.
It was raining when we left. I offered to walk her home. She let me. And when we reached her apartment, soaked and slightly breathless, she said, "Come in. I'll make you tea." Of course, I said yes. And the second I stepped into her home, something shifted. It was like walking into a different world. Too quiet. Too perfect. Not in the clean-and-cozy sense. No. This was surgical.
Everything in its place. Every book stacked by height. Not a single speck of dust or stray thread. The smell of lavender disinfectant lingered in the air like a warning. Even her paintings. abstracts and still lifes. were perfectly spaced, balanced like they were holding their breath. It made my own obsessive cleanliness look sloppy. Still, I was impressed. Maybe even a little intimidated. She excused herself to the kitchen and came back with two mugs. Black coffee no sugar. Just how I like it. She remembered.
But as she handed me the cup, her hand trembled just a little. Just enough. A small splash of coffee hit the floor. Barely noticeable. But Zia noticed.
Her eyes locked on the spot. Something in her face twisted, panic, horror, I couldn't tell. She muttered something under her breath and disappeared into the kitchen.
Seconds later, she was back. Napkin in hand. She dropped to the floor and started scrubbing. Not dabbing. Not wiping.
Scrubbing.
I watched for a moment, unsure if this was a joke. It wasn't. She cleaned that spot like it had insulted her ancestors. Vigorous, mechanical strokes. Again and again and again. Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes wide, unfocused.
"Zia," I called. Nothing. "Hey. It's just a spill. Relax." Still nothing. I crouched beside her. She didn't even glance at me.
"Zia—stop. You're hurting yourself." She kept going. Hands raw. Knees bent like she'd snap in half. Her world had narrowed into that one small stain. That one mistake. And in that moment, I saw it again. The thing I thought I imagined. The broken rhythm behind her perfect facade. I reached for her shoulder, gripped it tight, and pulled her up. Only then did she blink. Like waking from a trance. Her chest heaved as she stared at me, disoriented. "I… I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened." She tried to smile it off. Tried to shift back into the calm, collected Zia. The mask slipped back on. But it was too late. I'd seen it. The cracks beneath the porcelain. And as I watched her straighten her back and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, I knew something for certain.
I wasn't wrong about her. She was hiding something.
And now… I wasn't going anywhere.
Chapter seven
Arlen's POV (It takes one broken thing to recognize another.)
People had started to talk. Whispers, side-eyes, the occasional nudge-nudge "Are you two…?" kind of look.
It was expected. Zia and I were everywhere together. Coffee shops, book fairs, late walks, night grocery runs. If I wasn't in her apartment, she was in mine—usually curled on the floor while I arranged my books for the thousandth time. We didn't talk about what we were. It didn't matter. What mattered was that we fit. Two jigsaw pieces cut by the same damaged hands. Some people tried to "warn" me about her.
"She's not well," they said.
"She talks to the air, you know?"
"She's… weird."
And every time, I shut them up with a look or a sharp, "You done?" Because I'm not exactly a poster child for sanity either. I'm a neurosurgeon. Smart, meticulous, respected. But I haven't touched a fork that isn't white in eight years. I can't tolerate the color red. I don't like hugs, birthdays, loud laughter, or people who shift things on my desk without permission. I live in black. Walls, curtains, shirts, bedcovers. The thought of sleeping in someone else's house makes my stomach twist. But with Zia? I sleep fine. I still don't understand that. So, no. I wasn't about to judge her. Except… one day, the puzzle shifted again.
Her mom came by to drop off groceries. I was there, sitting on Zia's pristine couch, flipping through one of her paperbacks. She was in the kitchen making soup. Zia's mom gave me a polite smile, then began tidying the place. Nothing new. But this time, I watched. And something caught my attention.
She wiped the same table… again. And again. And again. Not just fussing, scrubbing with desperate intensity. Her lips were moving slightly, murmuring something under her breath, eyes glazed. She cleaned the knobs of the stove until they gleamed. Then re-cleaned them. I know obsessive behavior. I've seen it in my own mirror. And this? This was inherited. That same gnawing fear of disorder. Of wrongness. I didn't say anything. Just took a quiet note. But then came the park.
Zia wanted to go to an amusement park. The kind with fried snacks and too many kids. She looked radiant, even under the sun. Hair pulled up, smile soft. We played a few games, shared popcorn, and I even let her drag me onto a carousel. For once, everything felt… simple. Until she turned to me suddenly and said, "Since I started hanging out with you, my little friend hasn't come back." I blinked. "Your friend?" She smiled. "Yeah. I think she's mad at me. I haven't seen her or heard from her in days. She used to be around all the time." At first, I thought she meant a real friend. I laughed. half-joking, half honest. "Well, you have me now. I can be everything and more." I smirked. "I don't have friends either. Just me, my patients, and surgical nightmares." She didn't laugh. Not the way I expected. So I asked, "Where does she live? Let's go see her. Maybe I can apologize on your behalf." She looked up, eyes thoughtful. "She's… alone. Just like me. No dad. Only a mother. Still in secondary school. I don't know where she comes from. She just… shows up. Beside me." Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten. "She's not real, is she?" I said softly. Zia didn't respond. Just smiled, like someone remembering a favorite childhood memory.
"She always knows where to find me," she whispered.
And right then, everything clicked. The conversations with the air. The extra plate of food. The laughter to nothing. Zia hadn't just imagined a friend. She believed in her. Needed her. And now? Now the friend was gone. Because of me.
We walked home in silence after that. Not tense, not awkward. Just… silent. Zia held my arm. She still smiled. But something had changed. Not between us. yet, but behind her eyes. I saw her fragility more clearly now. Not weakness. No, Zia wasn't weak. But something inside her was fractured. And maybe… maybe I was the wrong kind of glue. I should've run. Should've told myself this is too much, too far gone. But I didn't. Because I know what it means to be cracked and confused and craving just one person who doesn't look at you like you're broken. So no, I'm not going anywhere. Not yet.
Chapter eight
Arlen's POV
(Some people want love. I wanted comprehension.)
After that day in the park, I couldn't stop thinking about her "friend." Zia said it so casually, like she was describing a relative who had simply moved away. Her tone wasn't frantic or disturbed. It was calm. Normal. That was the scariest part.
For the next few days, I tried to focus on my work. I had three surgeries lined up and an upcoming lecture to deliver. But she lingered in my head like a half-remembered melody. The way she'd looked at the sky, the smile that came too easily when talking about someone who doesn't exist. I needed answers.
That's how I found myself, on a slow, overcast afternoon, walking into my aunt's wing at MedCross Research Institute. Dr. Pamela Matthew. Neuroscientist. Respected. Brilliant. My father's sister, and one of the few people I trusted with… anything resembling vulnerability. "Arlen," she said, smiling as she looked up from her lab screen. "To what do I owe this rare visit? Hospital politics or love life disaster?"
"Neither. Can't a nephew visit his favorite aunt for no reason?"
She chuckled. "When that nephew is you? No. What's on your mind, Surgeon Supreme?" We talked a little. Shared inside jokes about the committee board and neuro-elitists. Then I leaned against the edge of her desk and dropped the question. casually, like I was discussing the weather. "If someone, let's say hypothetically, talks to themselves when alone. Laughs at things that aren't there. Holds conversations with no one. What could that mean?"
She leaned back, eyes sharp. "You're not asking for a paper, are you?"
"No."
"Then you're asking about someone."
I didn't answer.
She nodded slowly, lips pursed. "Could be several things. Schizophrenia, delusional disorder, dissociative identity disorder, though DID is less common. Hallucinations can also stem from trauma. Or sometimes… severe OCD misinterpreted as psychosis."
That caught my attention.
"Obsessive-compulsive disorder?" I asked, trying not to react too obviously.
"Yes. Some people develop repetitive rituals so extreme they begin to create mental companions or coping images, especially if there's a history of neglect or trauma. The brain will do anything to protect itself."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You'd need to bring the person in for testing. Cognitive exams. MRI, sometimes medication trials."
"Not possible," I said quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
"It's… too early. Not that kind of relationship. I just want to understand.. quietly."
"You always were a quiet fixer," she murmured. "Fine. I'll give you some reading." She handed me two thick books, both flagged with sticky notes. Unquiet Minds and Fragments of Self.
I devoured them. Late at night, in my living room, surrounded by sterile black and cold light, I read. For days. At first, I considered bipolar disorder. But Zia was too stable in her rhythms, too emotionally consistent. No manias. No depressive slumps.
Then I hit the chapter on schizophrenia. The auditory hallucinations. The imaginary "friend." The smile. The eyes that sometimes seem to stare through you.
It fit. But DID—Dissociative Identity Disorder—was the one that held my attention the longest.
Split selves. Inner children. Coping mechanisms that develop to survive trauma the body couldn't handle. Still, I didn't know if Zia had ever experienced trauma. She didn't talk about her past. Not directly. Everything she shared was selective, scattered. Emotionally safe. So I went back to the only method that's never failed me.
Observation. I watched her. Subtly. From across the street. From my car. On days we didn't meet, I followed her movements with the care of a man sketching a diagram. I took notes. But for three whole weeks, she was fine.
Too fine. No odd behavior. No conversations with the air. No singing to invisible shadows. She was cheerful, productive, completely functional. I almost believed I'd imagined it all.
Almost.
And just as I began to fall harder for her, just as I told myself maybe this could be real, I made a decision. To ask her out. Properly. Not as an investigator. Not as a watcher. As a man who liked her. Needed her. And maybe? was beginning to love her.
She said yes. No hesitation. Her smile was the kind of soft that made me forget the books and the symptoms. She kissed me that day. lightly, quickly, like it wasn't the first time but wouldn't be the last.
We've been together since. A few months, maybe. I lost track of time. Everything was good. Until it wasn't.
(Some people fear monsters under the bed. I fear the ones that sit next to us on park benches, smiling like nothing's wrong.)
It had been nearly a month of peace. Normal. Whatever that word means. Zia and I were in a rhythm. She came over often. I spent some nights at her apartment. We cooked, read, argued about literature. She gifted me her favorite books. ones with worn covers and annotated margins like secret maps. People started to notice us together. Whispers followed us down grocery aisles and sidewalks.
It began… subtly.
A pause in conversation. A glance over her shoulder mid-sentence. A faint smile she'd wear at night, even when we weren't speaking. I told myself I was overthinking it again. But then, one evening, while we were watching a film on my couch. Zia burst out laughing. Loud. Clear. At absolutely nothing.
I muted the TV. "What's funny?" She shook her head, still giggling. "Nothing. My friend just made a joke." I stared at her. "Who?" Her eyes lit up, not with embarrassment, but wonder. "You mean you don't see her?" she asked, voice trembling with disbelief. "Arlen… she's right there." She pointed. To the empty armrest. To the air.
"She's literally sitting beside you."
I think that was the first time I felt a true chill crawl down my spine. Like something ancient and invisible had stepped into the room. I tried to keep my tone steady. "Zia… there's no one there."
"She's always been here," she whispered, frowning like a disappointed teacher. "She used to be everywhere I went. But ever since we started dating… she disappears more often. I think—"
Zia paused, then glanced back at the invisible girl.
"She's jealous."
She said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
"Jealous of what?" I asked, my voice barely a murmur.
"She said I don't make time for her anymore. That I'm giving you too much of myself."
She looked at me with wide, honest eyes. "She wants me to break up with you."
I stood frozen.
Not because of the words, but because of the sincerity behind them. Zia wasn't playing a joke. She wasn't trying to be cryptic or poetic.
She meant every word.
That week, the air around her changed. Sometimes she'd be in the kitchen, talking to someone behind her. Using full sentences. Pausing like she was listening to responses. She'd tilt her head and laugh.
Once, I caught her humming to someone across the room. A tune only she and the shadows knew. And yet, when we were together, she was still the same Zia. Gentle. Warm. Smart. Her writing still pierced me. Her hands still found mine like they were made to fit.
But every night I left her apartment, I walked slower. Quieter.
Like I didn't want to wake something sleeping in the walls.
I've operated on tumor-riddled brains. I've watched neurons flicker and die on screens in real-time. I've faced emergencies that turned good men into husks.
But I don't think I've ever been as scared as I was that week.
Not of Zia. For her. For whatever childhood she had to survive.
For whatever friend her mind invented to carry the weight of being alone.
And for the possibility that loving her might not be enough to save her.
Chapter nine
Arlen's POV
(Some truths are whispered, not because they are secret, but because they are too loud inside the soul.)
She was humming again. Low, distracted, almost like a lullaby to the shadows only she could see.
We were in her living room, rain tracing silent trails down the window. I'd just made tea. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, smiling faintly at nothing in particular. Or maybe someone. I cleared my throat, trying not to sound too cautious. "Zia," I said softly, "can I ask you something?" She turned toward me, blinking as if I'd interrupted a private moment. "Sure."
I leaned forward a bit, resting my elbows on my knees. "Your… friend. The one I can't see. What's her story?"
For a second, I expected her to laugh it off. Joke. Tease.
But she didn't.
Instead, her expression softened, almost like I'd asked about an old childhood pet or a long-lost sibling.
"She's been with me since I was seventeen," she said.
I froze.
Zia's voice dropped, mellow and reflective, like she was reading aloud a passage from one of her own books. "Well, the first time she came, I was sixteen. I was getting bullied in school, badly. She showed up, just… appeared beside me one afternoon after I hid in the girls' restroom. She didn't say much. Just sat with me until I stopped crying."
She smiled as though remembering something warm.
"Then she disappeared. A year later, I was seventeen, and things were worse. I was spiraling. And she came back. That time, she stayed longer. Said we were the same kind of people. That she understood me in ways no one else did."
She looked at me then, as if checking whether I was still listening. I was. Completely.
"She became constant when I was twenty."
A pause.
"I was almost raped."
Her voice didn't flinch. But mine did.
I blinked. "Zia..."
"She was the one who reminded me I had pepper spray in my bag," she continued, cutting through my worry like it was just another line in a story. "I forgot it was there. I froze. But she didn't. She kept yelling at me to move, to fight back. So I did. That's how I escaped."
She took a sip from her mug, the porcelain clinking lightly against her teeth.
"She stayed with me after that. Every day. People still looked at me funny. Still avoided me. But she didn't. She became… my only friend. And about a year later, I wrote my first story. Sold it anonymously online. It did well, surprisingly. The money helped with my first down payment for this apartment."
Zia chuckled then, like she'd just told me about a funny coincidence on the train. I didn't interrupt. She leaned back and exhaled, settling into what I realized wasn't a tangent. this was her truth. The way she remembered her life. As a narrative detached from pain.
"My parents had me and my brother. There were four of us,"
she continued, like she was describing a movie she half-liked.
"It was good for a while. My dad owned a bread factory. My mom stayed home. We weren't rich, but we were comfortable. Nice house. Good school."
She paused, swirling the tea like she was stirring up old memories from the bottom.
"Then one customer claimed to see spiders in our bread. Word spread. Cockroaches, insects, mold. Other customers came forward. In three months, my dad couldn't pay his workers. In six, the factory shut down."
I watched her closely, noting how calmly she spoke.
"He filed for bankruptcy. We had to move. Change schools. Everything got smaller. My dad started gambling to fix things… or maybe to escape them. My mom picked up three jobs. My brother left school to work without telling anyone. Then the drinking started. The violence. My mom was his target at first… until she stopped reacting."
Her voice didn't tremble. Not once.
"So he turned to me."
I opened my mouth to speak, but just then, my phone rang. A sharp vibration on the table between us. The sound of reality barging into memory.
Zia blinked, like someone waking up from a deep dream. "You should get that."
I wanted to ignore it. Let it die in the cushion. But it was my attending from the hospital, a reminder I had a surgery scheduled in less than two hours. I stood reluctantly, grabbing my coat.
Zia walked me to the door, still quiet, still smiling faintly.
"I'll call you," I promised. She nodded.
As I walked back to my car, the drizzle now turning to mist, I replayed her words again and again.
She's been with me since I was seventeen.
She reminded me about the pepper spray.
She's jealous you're taking too much of my time.
That wasn't just trauma.
That was something else.
And I intended to find out what.
Chapter 10: The Girl Beside Me
Zia's POV
She's always been with me.
Even when I forget she exists, she reminds me. Like a breath caught between laughter and grief, like a shadow that stretches farther than my body, she's always there, watching, listening, comforting.
I call her Lumi. I don't remember how I picked that name. It just felt right. Gentle. Quiet. Like light in the middle of a storm. She first came to me when I was sixteen, a moment soaked in humiliation and loneliness. I don't remember what the bullies said that day, but I remember the sting, the way my eyes burned, and how the hallway walls seemed to close in. I hid in the last toilet stall, knees pulled to my chest, trembling. That's when she came, just like that. Like she knew exactly where to find me.
"You're not weak," she said. Her voice was soft. Feminine. Firm. "They can't touch the real you."
I didn't question it. I should have. But I didn't. Her presence wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I wasn't alone anymore. She left after a while, but she always returned. At seventeen. Then again at twenty, when I was almost… when something terrible almost happened to me. I had frozen. My mind had gone blank, but her voice broke through the fear like thunder.
"Your bag. Pepper spray."
I listened. I ran. I lived.
Since then, she became constant. Not always visible, but always near. Sometimes, I hear her humming. Other times, she asks about my day or critiques my writing. She doesn't like my romantic stories, she says they're too unrealistic. But she's proud of me. I can feel it. She celebrates my wins. She mourns with me when I cry. She tells me I'm not crazy, even when everyone else gives me those looks, the kind that makes you shrink inside your skin.
I know people wouldn't understand her. Not Arlen. He's kind, and warm in the way only people who've been broken and rebuilt can be. He doesn't ask many questions. He listens. Sometimes, I think he sees past the smile I wear. Sometimes, I think he hears the silence between my laughter. But I haven't told him everything.
Not yet.
He asked me once, casually, about her. About my friend. And I told him the truth: Lumi's been with me since I was sixteen. She's been there when no one else could be. She understands me in ways no one ever could.
She doesn't like Arlen.
Lately, she says I've been ignoring her. That I smile more at him than I do at her. That I don't need her anymore. But I do. I need them both. I wish they could meet. I wish Arlen could see her. I even asked once, half joking, half hopeful. "Can't you see her, Arlen? She's right beside you."
He didn't answer. Just stared at me like I had pulled the sky down and handed it to him in pieces.
I don't blame him. People leave when they see what they don't understand. But Arlen hasn't left. Not yet. Maybe… maybe he sees more than he says. Or maybe he's just like me, broken in places you can't point to on an X-ray.
I don't know what Lumi is.
A coping mechanism. A trauma ghost. A friend. A part of me.
But I know this much: she saved me.
And I won't abandon her just because I've found someone new.
Chapter eleven—Where Everything Strayed
Zia's POV
There's a girl. She used to smile like life didn't have claws.
Born into a family of four. father, mother, brother. They weren't rich, but they were full. Warm food, safe beds, a father who returned home before dark, a mother who kissed her forehead after prayers. A brother who shared his biscuit crumbs with her even when he claimed he hated girls.
It was good. For a while.
Then, as easily as a page turns in a windblown book, everything… shifted.
I was a little over fourteen. I remember the news like a dream recited too many times. A customer claimed they found a spider in a loaf of my father's bread. Then cockroaches. Then something worse. It spread fast, like mold does in the corners of an abandoned room, quiet and consuming. His competitors fed the fire.
Three months. That's all it took for the debt to find us. First, it knocked gently. Then it broke down the doors.
The factory died. My father filed for bankruptcy. We moved from comfort to barely-manageable. A smaller house, fewer meals. A new school, where uniforms had to be reused and books borrowed. I hated the smell of that house. like damp wood and unspoken shame. I hated the silence that replaced my father's jokes, the way my mother smiled too tightly.
And then the monster woke up in him.
Gambling. That was the first sign. Then came the drinking, the shouting, the fists. My mother became a ghost before my eyes. A body moving, speaking, feeding, but gone. My brother left school without a word. I found a note under his pillow: "I can't be part of this anymore." I couldn't blame him. I was jealous. He escaped.
I did not.
When my father lost a game, I became the punching bag. His rage was precise. I'd curl into a ball and count each second until he stopped. I stopped crying after the fifth time. My mother stopped begging after the tenth. I stopped flinching after the fiftieth. Pain is strange. It teaches you survival in exchange for everything else.
I started going to school with long sleeves. With foundation caked under my eyes. I smiled harder. So no one would ask. I don't think people really want the truth anyway. It went on for a year. One whole year of madness dressed as routine.
Then, the day everything ended.
He had borrowed money again. this time from men who didn't give second chances. They came like shadows at noon. Fast. Loud. Angry. I remember the screaming. The blood. My father trying to escape, running with wild eyes through the house like a rat cornered. He slipped, hit his head against the wall.
That sound.
I'll never forget it. He died instantly.
My mother didn't cry.
Instead, she dragged me, still shaking, into the pit behind the house. The trash hole. The place where we dumped excrement and rotten food. We stayed there for eight hours, covered in things I can't describe, breathing through cloth to keep from vomiting.
After the men left, she came out and looked at the house. Then set it on fire. No ceremony. No tears.
Just a matchstick.
We moved cities the next day. With nothing but a box of old photos and debts that followed us like a ghost. People say you can start over. That's a lie. You don't start over. You carry it with you. neatly folded behind your smile, stitched into your skin, sewn into your spine. You don't run from trauma. You build your life around it. Make it a room you visit sometimes when the world gets too loud.
That's when Lumi came again.
She doesn't call me a victim.
She never did.
She sits with me when the silence is too thick. She holds my hand when I forget how to breathe. She reminds me I survived.
Sometimes I wish I could be normal. But what is normal anyway?
Is Arlen normal? The way he lines his books with surgical precision. The way he flinches at bright colors. The way he never talks about his own scars.
We're all carrying something.
Mine just happens to talk back.
Chapter Twelve: When the Silence Breaks
Zia's POV
There are days I don't feel like myself. Not in a bad way. Just… different. Like I've stepped into someone else's rhythm.
Arlen had just left. His cologne still lingered in the cushions, a trace of his existence. We watched a film together. One of those sad, soft ones where no one speaks for minutes at a time. He liked it. I did too. I laughed when I should. Smiled where expected. He didn't notice the tension in my hands, the way I kept wringing my fingers like something wanted out.
I was glad he left before it started again.
I was halfway through brushing my hair when I heard her.
"He's changing you."
I froze.
That voice, gentle, playful, almost like mine but not quite. Higher, younger, lighter.
"You don't smile the way you used to, Zia. You don't talk to me anymore."
I turned around.
She was sitting on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, back straight, like she always did. Wearing that same faded green pinafore dress I'd imagined her in since she first appeared. Her hair was tied up in two puffs, ribbons I couldn't remember owning tied neatly around them.
Lumi. My best friend. My shadow.
I let out a breath, setting the brush down. "Where have you been?" I asked softly, smiling. "I missed you."
"No, you didn't." Her voice was sharp this time. She stood up and walked toward the mirror, standing beside me like we were sisters. "You didn't even notice I was gone. Because he was here. Taking up space. Taking up you."
"I was busy," I mumbled.
"Too busy for me?" she asked, tilting her head. "I've been here since you were seventeen, Zia. Seventeen. When no one else was. When you cried in that tiny bathroom and wanted to disappear. Who was there? Me. Not him."
She was right.
I looked into the mirror. My reflection stared back, but she wasn't in it.
She never is.
Still, I turned to her, brushing her hair with my fingers even though I couldn't feel anything. "I didn't forget about you."
"Liar." She giggled, and the sound made the hair on my arms rise. "You're starting to believe them. That I'm not real. That I'm just something your mind made up to survive. That hurts, Zia. That hurts a lot."
"No. I don't think that," I whispered, stepping back, suddenly feeling cold. "You're real. You're here."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "If I'm real, then why don't you tell Arlen about me? Let him see me. Let him talk to me."
"He… he can't see you. I don't know why."
"Then he doesn't belong." Her tone was flat. Heavy. Not like Lumi at all. "He's ruining us. He's trying to pull you away from me. He wants to fix you. But you're not broken."
I started shaking my head. "No, he doesn't. He likes me. He wants to know me."
"No, Zia. He wants to cure you. Like you're a problem. Like I'm a sickness."
I pressed my palms to my ears. Her voice found a way in anyway.
"Break up with him."
"No…"
"Or I will leave. And you will be alone again. You'll cry at night and scratch your arms and look at that razor blade you keep in the book spine and think about how easy it would be to disappear."
My breath caught.
She never used to talk like this.
Tears stung the corners of my eyes.
"Don't cry." Lumi's voice was suddenly soft again, sweet, like honey. She came closer, brushing her fingers over my cheek though I felt nothing. "I'm only saying this because I love you. I'm your only real friend, remember? I've always been. It's us. Always us."
I nodded slowly, almost against my will.
She kissed my forehead and whispered, "Good girl."
Then she vanished. Just like always. No sound. No puff of smoke.
I stood in the middle of my room, trembling, feeling like the walls were closing in.
I didn't know what scared me more. that Lumi was slipping into something darker… Or that I might start believing her.
Chapter Thirteen: The Edge of the Thread
Zia's POV (with moments from Arlen's)
The text was short. "Can we talk?"
I stared at it for a while before sending it. My hands didn't shake, but my chest felt too full. Like I'd swallowed something sharp and it was lodging itself behind my ribs. Lumi was humming in my ear. A lullaby I never remembered learning.
Arlen replied almost instantly:
"Sure. I'll come over."
That wasn't what I wanted. But I didn't say no.
When he walked through the door, the scent of antiseptic and coffee followed him in. He looked tired. Kind. Familiar. That made it harder.
"I need to say something," I said, standing by the window like I was hiding behind the sunlight. "Don't talk. Just let me say it."
His eyes didn't move from me, but he nodded.
"I don't think this is working. Us. I mean." My voice sounded steady. Too steady. It scared me. "I think we're from two different worlds. I think I… maybe I'm not good for you. Maybe I'm not good at all."
He didn't say anything.
Lumi was crouched in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was smiling, but there was no joy in it.
"Do it," she whispered. "Tell him to leave. Right now. You don't need him."
I looked at Arlen again.
"I think we should.. " I tried, but the words stuck.
He moved then. Just a few steps. Close, but not too close. He didn't touch me.
"Zia," he said gently. "Why now?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Why now?" His eyes were searching mine. "We've been fine. You laugh with me. You rest your head on my shoulder. You kiss me like I'm the only one left in the world. Why now?"
I looked away.
Lumi hissed."He's manipulating you. Don't listen. He wants to make you doubt me."
"Because I can feel her more," I whispered.
His brow furrowed.
"My friend. Lumi. She's… been louder. Ever since we got close. She doesn't like you. She thinks you're taking too much of my time. She says you want to fix me."
Arlen exhaled, slow and steady. "Do you want me to fix you?"
"I don't know if I'm broken."
He nodded. "That's fair. But… I don't want to fix you, Zia. I just want to know you."
I flinched.
Lumi stood now, walking slowly behind him. She was mouthing something I didn't understand.
"Zia, look at me," he said.
I did. He was calm, like he always is in the OR, but his eyes were wide with emotion. "I know you see her. I know she means something to you. And I don't want to fight her. But I won't lose you to her either."
Tears welled up in my eyes. "You think I'm sick."
"I think you're surviving." He stepped closer, his hand hovering near mine. "And if Lumi helped you survive, then maybe she saved your life. But she's not saving you anymore. She's keeping you small."
"She's my only friend…"
"You have me now."
His voice cracked on the last word. It hit me harder than anything.
Lumi screamed.
Not out loud. Just in my head.
I gasped and covered my ears, shaking my head as tears streamed down my cheeks.
"I don't know what's real," I choked out.
Arlen gently took my hands, pulling them away from my face. "Me. I'm real. This is real."
I looked at him.
And for one fleeting moment, Lumi was gone.
Silence.
It was terrifying. And peaceful.
"I can't promise I won't break," I whispered.
He leaned forward, forehead against mine. "Then let's shatter together."
Chapter Fourteen: When the Wind Changed Direction
Zia's POV
Lumi was crying again. I heard her before I saw her. soft sobs echoing around my room like someone had cracked a child open and poured sadness into the air.
"What's wrong?" I whispered.
She was curled near the wall, knees hugged to her chest, her small frame shivering like she'd been out in the rain too long. Her voice was faint, fragile. "He's hurting me again."
I sat down beside her, but she didn't look at me. She never did when she was like this.
"Who?" I asked, heart thudding. "What happened?"
"The boys," she whispered. "At school. They always push me, call me names. I told the teacher, but she doesn't believe me. I don't want to go anymore."
I felt rage I didn't understand swelling in my chest. "No one gets to treat you that way," I said firmly, standing up.
Lumi looked up at me then, her eyes wide, glistening. "Will you come with me? Please? Just this once?"
I didn't even think. I grabbed my keys and slipped on the hoodie Arlen liked to wear when he stayed over. It still smelled like his cologne. Comforting. But I didn't tell him I was going anywhere. He'd ask too many questions. Lumi led me down the street. She didn't speak, just skipped ahead like she was showing me something important. I followed. Past the park. Past the row of barbershops and pharmacies and street vendors.
We crossed the first road. Easy.
The second, less so. cars sped past like angry insects, but Lumi didn't stop. She crossed anyway, her long white dress catching the wind like a flag of surrender.
I hesitated on the curb.
"Lumi, wait!"
She turned around, smiling. "You promised."
So I ran. That's when I heard the screech. The flash of headlights. The shattering crunch of something far away, like bone, like metal, like trust.
And then everything went black.
**************************
Arlen's POV
I don't remember running red lights or how I got there so fast. I just remember the call. "She was hit by a car. She's conscious, stable, but you should come."
Zia.
My Zia.
When I saw her in that hospital bed, bruised, bandaged, her wrist in a cast, I forgot how to breathe. She was staring out the window when I walked in.
She didn't look surprised to see me.
"You found me," she said, softly.
"You always leave your location on." I tried to smile.
She didn't return it. "I followed Lumi. She was being bullied."
I froze. "You followed her?"
She nodded. "To school. But she ran too fast… I couldn't catch up."
I sat down slowly. "Zia… Lumi's not real."
Her face hardened. "Don't say that."
"She's not. Zia, you could have died."
"She's all I have!"
My voice cracked. "You have me."
She flinched.
"I almost lost you today. Do you understand that? I don't care if it's Lumi or a shadow or a voice, I will fight whatever's haunting you. But you have to let me. You have to meet me halfway."
Tears slid down her face. Silent. Shimmering.
"I don't know what's real anymore," she said.
I reached out, took her unbandaged hand. "Then let's start over. I'll show you what's real. Every day. As long as you let me."
She didn't say anything. Just leaned into me, her head on my shoulder. We stayed that way until visiting hours ended.
⸻
Later that night, when Zia slept…
Lumi sat at the edge of her hospital bed, her dress no longer white but soaked in grey.
She stared at Arlen as he kissed Zia's forehead before quietly leaving.
"You can't save her," she whispered into the empty room.
"She's mine."
Chapter Fifteen:
Arlen's POV
Zia was discharged from the hospital three days later. "It wasn't anything serious, just a few fractured ribs," the attending doctor had said with unsettling calm. I wanted her to stay longer, just to be sure, but the doctor insisted it wasn't necessary. Zia agreed. she hates the sterile smell of disinfectants and antiseptics. In the end, we settled on weekly checkups.
It's been three weeks since the incident, and LUMI has taken a darker turn. more aggressive, more unpredictable. I'm growing more anxious about Zia's safety by the day. I've been quietly searching for ways to get her back to the hospital. something low-key, so she doesn't overthink it or feel like she's being treated like a patient.
Tonight, I came home from work and, instead of heading straight to my place, I went to Zia's. Partly because the paranoia won't let me rest, and partly because we've grown closer, close enough that being with her feels like the only place I want to be.
—————————
The apartment felt too small tonight. too quiet, too heavy with everything we weren't saying. After dinner, the silence stretched between us like a thin thread, fragile and taut. Zia sat close on the couch, eyes downcast, fingers twisting in her lap. Her anxiety was palpable, and I felt it pressing against my own chest, a weight I couldn't shake. I reached for her hand, pulling her fingers between mine. She looked up, startled, vulnerable. I wanted to say something, anything to break the tension.
We sat like that, hands laced, breathing together. until i stood and turned the lights low. A warm amber glow filled the space, softening the edges of the room, wrapping us in quiet safety.
"I want to tell you something," i said, kneeling in front of her. "Something I've never said out loud to anyone."
She looked down at me, eyes wide, unsure.
"I've been scared before too," i started. "So scared I didn't think I could live through it."
I took a breath. "When I was seven, my mom cheated on my dad. I didn't understand it then, but I remember the silence that followed. How loud silence can be when two people hate each other in it. I remember the shouting, the slamming doors. And then, one day, my dad looked at me and asked, 'Are you even mine?'"
Zia's breath hitched.
"He stopped calling me son after that."
My hands shook, but i kept going.
"My mom, she wasn't maternal. She used to give me these pills whenever I cried. Said it would 'calm the noise.' I think she meant mine, but maybe also hers."
Zia leaned forward slowly, listening as if each word i gave her was sacred.
"When I was thirteen, my aunt, Dr. Yvonne, took me to a school awards night. I'd won something small. She bought me ice cream after. We came home late."
I swallowed hard.
"There was blood on the wall. My dad had been shot in the head. My mom in the heart. We don't know who killed whom first. The police never figured it out. Suicide. Murder. A spiral of everything that had built up for years."
I laughed bitterly. "My home was soaked in red. And I hate red. God, I hate it. But somehow, I ended up in neurosurgery where all I see is blood."
I looked up at her. "And I love it. I love fixing things. I love understanding how the brain breaks. I love having control in a world where I never had any."
Zia was crying now. Quietly. Her hand moved to my face, cradling it like i was made of something fragile.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," i murmured. "Not when you're the first person I've ever wanted to tell."
"I'm here," she whispered.
That simple assurance was enough to crack my defenses.
Slowly, hesitantly, I pulled her closer. Her breath hitched when our lips met, soft at first, questioning, then growing hungry. Her hands roamed my back, her touch setting fire to every nerve. I kissed her neck, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse under my lips. The kiss started gentle. Soft. Like an apology wrapped in tenderness. Then it deepened. Became greedy. My hands moved over her waist, tracing the shape of her ribs, as if grounding myself in her reality. Her body answered mine, curling around me, clutching at the fabric of my shirt until i pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.
Zia didn't look away. She let me see her. raw, vulnerable, trembling, but still whole in a way I'd never seen anyone be before.
I kissed her throat, the dip between her collarbones, the edges of her scars, murmuring soft, reverent things that only she could hear. My touch wasn't just physical. It was worshipful. A promise.
Our bodies met again in a rhythm that felt more like prayer than pleasure.
We were slow at first. Savoring. Mapping. Learning. But soon it turned urgent. Desperate.
Zia arched into me with a breathless sound, her hands dragging down my back. I gripped her tighter, as if anchoring us both to this one moment, where nothing else mattered except skin, heartbeat, and release.
When we moved together, it wasn't just sex. It was everything we had never said. All the broken pieces we were too afraid to share. All the fear of losing each other to something unseen. All the grief. All the love.
When it was over, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my hand tracing slow circles down her spine.
Tomorrow was waiting, with all its uncertainty.
But tonight, we had each other.
Chapter Sixteen: The Hospital Visit
Arlen's POV
The sterile smell hit me the moment we stepped into the hospital, a sharp contrast to the warmth we'd shared just hours before. Zia's hand trembled in mine as we walked through the gleaming halls.
She tried to mask her nerves with a brave smile, but I could see the tightness in her jaw, the way her eyes flickered around the unfamiliar surroundings. The receptionist handed us forms, the nurses guided us through protocols, and every step felt like a step further from normal, deeper into uncertainty.
The MRI room was cold and impersonal. I held her hand as the technician explained the procedure, but Zia's gaze drifted, lost in a world I couldn't reach. She squeezed my hand suddenly, her breath catching. I whispered, "I'm right here."
The machine hummed and whirred around us, a mechanical lullaby as the scanner moved over her head. I focused on her. Her quiet bravery, the little trembles she fought to hide. When it was over, I helped her off the table, brushing stray hair from her face.
"I'm proud of you," I said softly.
She managed a small smile, but her eyes were wary.
The rest of the tests followed. A battery of blood work, neurological exams, questions probing deeper than I wanted anyone to ask. Each moment, I felt the weight of what might come, but also the fragile hope that we'd find answers. That maybe, just maybe, we could find a way through this. together.
After hours in the sterile maze, we finally stepped outside into the cool evening air. Zia leaned into me, exhausted but still holding on.
"No matter what," I whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."
She looked up at me, a flicker of that familiar smile breaking through. For now, that had to be enough.
—————————————————
Zia's POV
After the Tests.
The hospital still felt cold in my bones, even though the sun had set hours ago. The sterile smell clung to my skin, and every beep, every footstep echoed in my mind like a warning.
I wanted to scream, to run away, but I stayed silent, clutching Arlen's hand like a lifeline. His presence was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. What if they find out? The thought crawled like poison. What if I'm truly broken? What if Lumi is not just a friend anymore but something worse?
I could feel her stirring again inside me, whispering cruel things that Arlen was stealing me away, that I was losing myself.
"Can you see her?" I had asked him once. "She's right beside you." I knew it sounded insane, but to me, Lumi was as real as the beat of my heart. Arlen didn't laugh. He didn't dismiss me. He held me. When he shared his own pain, the darkness he carried, I felt less alone. Somehow, knowing that he fought his own battles gave me strength to face mine.
Later that night, wrapped in his arms, the fear faded just enough to let me feel something pure, desire, safety, hope.
Every touch was a reminder that despite everything, I was still here. Still fighting. Still loved.
But as I closed my eyes, the fear whispered one last time.
What happens if love isn't enough?
Chapter Seventeen: The Diagnosis
Arlen's POV
The phone rang just as I was about to leave the hospital. My aunt's number flashing on the screen. A mixture of hope and dread twisted inside me.
"Arlen," her voice was steady but grave. "We got the MRI and the full battery of tests back. It's… schizophrenia."
The word landed heavy, a weight I'd expected but still wasn't ready to fully accept.
"Schizophrenia," she repeated. "It's a chronic brain disorder that affects how a person thinks, feels, and behaves. People with schizophrenia may experience hallucinations, hearing or seeing things that aren't there, delusions, false beliefs, and disorganized thinking. They might withdraw socially, have trouble expressing emotions, and struggle with motivation."
I swallowed hard. That was Zia. The imaginary friend, the sudden laughter, the episodes, all pieces of this puzzle.
"She also shows signs consistent with dissociative identity disorder, but the dominant diagnosis is schizophrenia."
"Is it treatable?" I asked, gripping the phone tighter.
"Yes," she said gently. "With antipsychotic medications and therapy, many patients manage their symptoms well. But the first and hardest step is getting Zia to believe she's sick. Acceptance is critical. Without it, she won't cooperate with treatment, and her condition could worsen."
I nodded to myself, though she couldn't see. "I'll talk to her. I'll do whatever it takes."
"You'll need her support system strong. She needs stability and patience. Hospitalization may be necessary initially for monitoring and medication adjustment."
"I understand. Thank you, Aunt. I'll be there for her."
After the call ended, the quiet of the room swallowed me. This wasn't just about medicine or science anymore. This was about the fragile human being I cared for, the girl I loved, standing on the edge of a frightening new reality.
I promised myself I wouldn't let her fall.
******************************************************
————Facing Reality——————
The apartment felt heavier than usual, the air thick with unspoken fears. Zia sat curled on the couch, eyes distant, as if drifting somewhere I couldn't reach. Tonight, I had to cross the hardest bridge, the truth.
I took a deep breath and sat beside her, my fingers finding hers. "Zia, I got the test results," I said softly.
Her eyes flicked up to me, wary but trusting enough to listen.
"They show that you have schizophrenia. It's a medical condition, a brain disorder. It explains the things you've been experiencing… hearing Lumi, the episodes, the voices."
Her jaw tightened. "So… you're saying I'm crazy?"
"No," I shook my head firmly. "You're not crazy. You're sick, like someone with diabetes or asthma. It's just a condition that needs treatment."
She looked down, silent for a moment. "But Lumi… she's real. She's my friend."
"I know she feels real. And that's why we need to help you. Lumi isn't your enemy, but she's part of the illness, and sometimes she can be dangerous, telling you things that aren't true. Like when she said you should break up with me."
Zia's eyes welled up. "I don't want to lose her… or you."
"You don't have to lose either of us," I said, voice steady but gentle. "The doctors think it's best you stay in the hospital for a little while. It's not punishment, it's so you can get strong enough to keep Lumi safe and away from hurting you."
She bit her lip, trembling. "What if I can't do it? What if I lose myself?"
"You won't be alone. I'll be there every step. We'll face it together." I squeezed her hand, trying to lend strength I wasn't sure I had.
After a long pause, she nodded. "Okay. For you… and maybe for me too."
I pulled her close, feeling her tremble against me. The road ahead was uncertain, but this first step, her acceptance, felt like a fragile, hopeful beginning.
Chapter Eighteen: The Hospital Stay
Arlen's POV
The sterile white walls and the faint antiseptic smell hit me the moment we stepped inside the psychiatric unit. Zia's hand was cold in mine, her fingers gripping tightly, like she was holding on to a lifeline. Her eyes darted nervously, wide and searching. "This place feels… so empty," she whispered.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "It's just a place to help you get better."
But I could see the panic flickering beneath her calm words.
The nurses were kind but firm, guiding her through intake procedures, explaining medication, and outlining the daily routine. Zia tried to stay composed, but the fear was written all over her face. That night, I stayed as long as the hospital allowed. She lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, as if the quiet was suffocating her.
"I don't want to be here," she finally said, voice shaking.
"I know," I said softly, sitting beside her. "But you're safe. And this is where you'll learn to fight Lumi and the fear she brings."
She swallowed hard, tears glistening. "What if I never get rid of her?"
"Lumi is part of you, but not all of you," I said gently. "We'll get through this. You're stronger than you know."
———————
Over the next days, I visited as often as I could, holding her hand during the darkest moments when the medication made her dizzy, or when her mind raced with shadows and voices.
Each small smile she gave me was a victory. Each time she spoke to me about her fears, a crack in the armor. It wasn't easy. She had bad days and nights when she screamed for Lumi, or refused to eat. But slowly, the walls she'd built around herself started to crumble.
And every day I promised myself I'd be there to catch her if she fell.
Hospital Day 3: Therapy Session
The therapy room was small and softly lit, with a circle of chairs and calming pictures on the walls. I sat beside Zia, watching her fidget nervously as the psychiatrist spoke gently.
"Zia," the doctor said, "can you tell me more about Lumi?"
Her eyes darkened. "She's always there. She talks to me, watches over me… but sometimes she scares me."
The doctor nodded. "Lumi might be a part of your mind trying to protect you, but she's also causing harm. We need to learn how to tell her when to step back."
Zia's voice trembled. "I don't know how to do that."
I reached out, squeezing her hand. "You don't have to do it alone. We'll learn together."
Hospital Day 5: Interaction with Staff
The nurse brought Zia her medication with a kind smile. "It might make you feel sleepy or dizzy at first, but it will help calm your mind."
Zia swallowed the pill, grimacing. Later, I found her sitting quietly, rubbing her hands to stop the shaking.
"Those meds help keep Lumi's voice quieter," I told her softly.
She looked at me, vulnerable. "What if she never goes away?"
"I believe she will get quieter. And if not, we'll find a way to live with her without her hurting you."
————Lumi's Threat————
It's been 7 days. Approximately, a week since Zia has been admitted into the hospital. The hospital was silent except for the distant hum of machines. I was visiting late, trying to help Zia sleep.
Suddenly, her body stiffened. "Arlen… she's here," she whispered, eyes wide with fear.
"Who?" I asked, heart pounding.
"My friend. Lumi."
Her voice grew louder, "She says you're taking me away."
I held her tightly. "I'm here to help you. Not to take anything."
She trembled, fighting to stay grounded as if battling a shadow only she could see.
"Breathe," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
Minutes passed until her body relaxed. I wiped her tears away.
"We'll get through this."
Hospital Day 10: Breakthrough and Frustration
Zia sat across from me, eyes clearer than before but still shadowed with doubt.
"Today, Lumi didn't speak much," she said softly. "I was able to focus on the doctor's questions… and on you."
I smiled, feeling a flicker of hope. "That's progress. Every quiet moment from Lumi is a victory."
But then she shook her head, frustration flashing. "But sometimes I feel so empty, like I'm losing pieces of myself. And other times, Lumi screams louder than ever."
I reached across, taking her hand in mine. "It's okay to feel lost. Healing isn't straight. It's messy. We'll face it all. the silence and the noise."
Hospital Day 14: Medication Adjustments
The nurse came in with a new bottle. "The doctor adjusted Zia's medication. This one should help reduce the hallucinations and calm the anxiety." Zia eyed the pills warily. "I hate how they make me feel… like I'm not really me."
I nodded, understanding. "But they also help your mind rest, give you space from Lumi's voice." That night, I stayed late, watching her drift between sleep and uneasy dreams. Lumi's presence was quieter, but still lurking.
Hospital Day 20: Visiting Hours
I sat beside Zia in the garden, watching the pale sunlight warm her face.
"I miss normal," she whispered. "I miss feeling like I'm just… me."
I squeezed her hand gently. "You are you. And this.., " I gestured to the hospital grounds "…is just a pit stop, not the whole journey."
She looked up at me, tears welling. "Will Lumi ever leave?"
"I don't know. But I promise, you won't have to fight her alone."
Hospital Day 27: Setback
Zia's face was tense when I arrived. "She was so loud today. I couldn't even sleep."
Her hands shook as she spoke, and I could see the exhaustion beneath her eyes. I sat down and pulled her into a hug. "It's okay. Some days will be harder. But every day you fight, you're stronger."
She buried her face in my chest, whispering, "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," I promised.
Chapter Nineteen—one year later
Arlens pov
One year later..,
The sterile white walls of the hospital seemed less cold today. Maybe it was because Zia sat beside me, her hand resting lightly in mine, or because the weight we'd carried for so long was finally lifting.
She looked thinner, still a bit fragile, but there was a spark in her eyes that hadn't been there before. The woman I fell for was slowly coming back. I pulled the small velvet box from my pocket, heart pounding.
"Zia," I said, voice steady but full of everything I'd felt this past year. The fear, the hope, the love. "Will you marry me?"
Her eyes widened, tears spilling over as she nodded, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Yes, Arlen. Yes."
We stayed there for a moment, the hospital buzzing quietly around us, but all I could see was her, my future.
******************************************************
Zia and I stepped out of the hospital hand in hand, a week later officially discharged. Though she'd be coming back for weekly treatments and tests, and psychotherapy was finally behind her, the real journey had just begun.
the sunlight warm on her face. She looked fragile, but there was a quiet strength in her now, one born of battles fought and slowly won. I promised her then, no more running from the past or the demons lurking in the shadows. We'd build a life together, piece by piece. We started talking about the future almost immediately. Wedding plans became our shared project, a symbol of everything we had survived, and everything we hoped to create.
I wanted it to be simple but meaningful, intimate with close family and a few friends who stood by us. Zia's smile when I suggested a small garden ceremony was enough to make me want to move mountains.
We picked a date six months out, time for Zia to regain her strength, and for us to savor every moment of the build-up.
There were moments when her anxiety crept in, old fears rising like waves, but we faced them together. I promised to be her anchor, steady and sure.
Choosing the rings was one of the first fun moments, her delicate fingers sliding the band onto mine, the warmth spreading between us.
As the days passed, the plan came alive: invitations sent, dresses and suits picked out, menus chosen, music rehearsed. It was more than a wedding, it was a celebration of survival, love, and hope.
And every day, I was reminded of the woman who once lived with shadows in her eyes but now carried light in her smile.
Our future was waiting.
Chapter Twenty
The morning of our wedding dawned clear and bright. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow on Zia's face as she sat quietly by the mirror, brushing her hair. She looked radiant, more herself than I'd ever seen her in years. The shadows that once clouded her eyes had lifted, replaced by something tender and real. She caught my gaze and smiled. not at the air, not at some invisible friend, but at me. A genuine, fearless smile that reached deep inside my soul.
"Ready?" I asked, stepping closer.
"More than ever," she whispered.
Outside, guests gathered quietly in the garden where flowers bloomed in gentle bursts of color. Her closest friends, my family, even her mother had come. all here to witness the beginning of our new chapter.
As she walked down the aisle, there was no hesitation, no fear, only hope. The woman I'd fallen in love with, the girl who once hid behind laughter and shadows, was standing tall, whole, and free. After the vows, as we held hands and looked out over the smiling faces, I saw in Zia's eyes a promise to herself. a promise that she would keep writing, keep healing, keep living fully.
Later, in quiet moments, she told me how much writing had saved her, how each word was a step back to the light. We danced under the stars that night, the music wrapping around us like a warm embrace. There was laughter, tears, and endless joy.
Zia's journey wasn't over, not completely, but now she faced the future with courage. No more whispers from the air, no more invisible chains.
Just life. Real, beautiful life.
And for the first time in a long time, she was smiling, truly smiling, and it was contagious.
Epilogue — Zia's Voice
It's been a year since that day, the day I walked out of the hospital as a different person. The scars remain, some deeper than others, but I've learned that healing isn't about forgetting. It's about facing the shadows and choosing to move forward anyway.
I no longer smile at the air or talk to the silence. Instead, I smile at life, at the people who love me, and most of all, at myself. Writing has become my refuge and my strength, a way to give voice to the girl I was and the woman I'm becoming.
Arlen is my anchor. He sees me, all of me, and loves me anyway. Together, we've built a life defined not by the darkness we endured, but by the light we choose to chase every day.
I know trauma doesn't disappear overnight. It shapes us, but it doesn't have to define us.
And so, I keep going. One word, one breath, one day at a time.
Because sometimes the greatest love story is the one we tell ourselves, the story of never giving up.
⸻
"Healing doesn't mean the damage never existed. It means the damage no longer controls our lives."
— Buttercups.