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The first sign isn't obvious.
That's how possession works. If it announced itself, you'd fight it. You'd name it. You'd give it shape and limits. It doesn't want limits.
So it starts small.
You wake up with your arm wrapped around your own torso, fingers dug into your side hard enough to ache. For a moment, you don't understand why you're holding yourself like that. Then you realize you're not doing it consciously.
Your body did it while you slept.
As if it didn't want to let you go.
You pry your fingers away, flexing your hand until the stiffness eases. The skin on your side is warm, almost feverish, marked faintly with the impression of your grip.
Mine, something thinks.
Not in words. In certainty.
You sit up slowly, scanning the room.
Nothing is out of place.
That should bother you more than it does.
In the bathroom, you avoid the mirror at first. You brush your teeth by feel, eyes fixed on the tiled wall, counting strokes like it matters. When you finally glance up, it's only for a second.
Your reflection looks back immediately.
No delay.
No smile.
Normal.
Relief loosens your shoulders just enough for the thought to slip in.
You're safe right now.
The thought doesn't feel like yours.
You leave the apartment feeling watched but not followed. That's new. Usually the pressure lingers, heavy and close, like a hand hovering inches from your back.
Today, it feels… distant.
As if it trusts you not to run.
On campus, people greet you like nothing is wrong.
Someone holds a door open. Someone laughs at a joke you don't remember making. A classmate comments that you "seem better today."
Better.
The word echoes unpleasantly.
You catch yourself standing differently. Straighter. Still. Your nervous habits are quieter. Your foot doesn't bounce when you sit. You don't chew at the inside of your cheek.
Mira notices immediately.
She always does.
"You look…" she trails off as you sit beside her. "Different."
Your heart stutters.
"Different how?"
She studies you, eyes narrowing slightly, not suspicious yet—curious.
"Calmer," she says. "Like you actually slept."
You open your mouth to respond.
The warning doesn't come.
No pressure.
No pain.
No interference.
You answer easily. "Yeah. I did."
It's true.
That's what scares you.
Throughout the lecture, something strange happens: you focus. The words make sense. Your notes are legible, coherent, even neat.
When the professor asks a question, your hand rises before you've decided to volunteer.
You answer correctly.
The satisfaction that follows isn't pride.
It's approval.
A warmth spreads through your chest, slow and heavy, like being wrapped in a thick blanket. You almost smile.
Behind the feeling, something tightens its grip.
After class, Mira walks with you toward the quad.
"You sure you're okay?" she asks again, softer now. "You were really scaring me yesterday."
You glance at her.
The thought comes uninvited, sharp and sudden:
She worries too much.
You've never thought that before.
Mira is loyal. Attentive. She notices when people slip. That's one of the reasons you trust her.
Trusted.
The word feels past-tense.
"I told you," you say gently. "It was just panic. I'm fine now."
Mira slows her steps.
"That's not what I meant," she says. "You're acting like nothing happened. Like it didn't matter."
You stop walking.
For a split second, the warmth tightens into something else.
A warning, yes—but aimed outward.
At her.
Careful, something thinks through you.
You don't like that thought.
You push it down.
"It did matter," you say, forcing sincerity into your voice. "I just… don't want to talk about it anymore."
Mira's expression shifts. Hurt flickers across her face, quickly masked.
"Oh," she says. "Okay."
She nods, but the space between you feels wider now. Not physically. Something else.
Something deliberate.
That night, you dream again.
But it's not like before.
You're not trapped. You're not paralyzed. You're not watching from the outside.
You're walking through your apartment, lights on, everything clear and sharp. The air feels warm, comfortable. The walls feel solid, reassuring.
Behind you, footsteps match yours perfectly.
Not delayed.
Not heavy.
Exact.
You stop.
They stop.
You turn around.
It's you.
Closer than you expect. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from your own skin. This version of you looks healthier. Brighter. The dark circles under your eyes are gone. Your posture is confident, relaxed.
"I'm taking care of things," it says.
You frown. "I didn't ask you to."
It smiles, indulgent.
"You don't have to ask."
You wake with that smile lingering on your face.
It takes several seconds to fade.
Over the next few days, the changes continue.
Subtle. Insidious.
You don't flinch at reflections anymore. You don't scan rooms for exits. You don't feel the constant need to check behind you.
In exchange, something else changes.
You catch yourself correcting people mid-sentence. Finishing their thoughts. Predicting their reactions with unsettling accuracy.
When someone interrupts you, irritation flashes hot and sharp—out of proportion to the moment.
When Mira talks to other people, a tightness coils in your chest.
You watch her laugh with a classmate you barely know, and something ugly stirs behind your ribs.
Why is she wasting time on him?
The thought is immediate. Certain.
You don't remember forming it.
That night, your phone buzzes.
You look at it without thinking.
A message glows on the screen.
Don't let her drift.
Your blood runs cold.
You type back before you can stop yourself.
Who is this?
The response comes instantly.
Someone who keeps what's his.
Your fingers tremble.
I'm not yours.
The typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Appears again.
Then:
Not you.
You stare at the screen.
A memory surfaces unbidden: your arm wrapped around your own body in sleep. The warmth. The certainty.
Mine.
The next day, Mira is quiet.
She watches you the way you used to watch mirrors—carefully, out of the corner of her eye.
At lunch, she finally speaks.
"You know," she says, stirring her drink without looking at you, "you've been answering for me a lot."
You blink. "What?"
"In conversations," she says. "You jump in before I finish. You tell people what I mean. You correct me."
A flicker of annoyance rises.
You suppress it.
"I'm just trying to help."
"I didn't ask for help," she says.
The words sting more than they should.
You lean forward. "Why are you making this a thing?"
Mira looks up, startled.
"I'm not," she says. "I just—"
"You just what?" you press.
The pressure inside you builds, familiar now but twisted. It's not a warning.
It's encouragement.
Mira recoils slightly, eyes widening.
"See?" she says quietly. "This. This is what I mean."
You realize then how close your face is to hers. How your voice has dropped. How the people around you have gone quiet.
You step back abruptly.
"I'm sorry," you say. And you mean it. You think you do.
Mira nods, but something has shifted irreversibly.
That night, you dream of hands.
Not yours.
Not someone else's.
Hands layered over yours, guiding your movements. Steering. Correcting.
When you wake, your fingers ache as if they've been clenched for hours.
The message comes again the next day.
She doubts you.
You don't reply.
She will leave.
Your chest tightens.
I won't.
That's when you understand.
It's not possessive of you.
It's possessive through you.
Mira starts avoiding you. Small things at first. Sitting a little farther away. Answering texts later. Leaving conversations early.
Each time, the warmth tightens into something sharp.
Each time, the thought returns:
Fix it.
One evening, you find yourself standing outside her dorm without remembering the walk over.
Your phone is in your hand.
A text is already typed.
Can we talk?
Your thumb hovers over send.
Behind your eyes, something leans in.
Not forceful.
Patient.
Guiding.
You hit send.
From somewhere deep inside, something settles in satisfaction.
You don't see it yet.
But it's no longer just standing behind you.
It has its arms around everything you care about.
And it has no intention of letting go.