It’ll be craving.
And that’s when I’ll answer.
Tahlia
Idon’t sleep.
Not really.
I pretend to.
I lie still in bed with my eyes closed and my face turned towards the wall like that’ll fool him — whoever him really is — like he’s watching me through a screen somewhere, waiting for the twitch of my hand, the shift of my hips, the slow spread of fear I’ve been swallowing for twelve hours straight.
But I don’t sleep.
I don’t move.
I listen.
For what, I don’t know. A footstep. A breath. A whisper through the vent. The faintest proof that I’m not imagining the weight in the room with me, the sense that the air itself is being held in place by someone else’s attention.
I think about what it would sound like if he spoke to me from inside the wall. If his voice crawled through the plaster at three in the morning like the devil under the bed finally got bored and wanted to say hello.
I wonder if I’d answer.
I wonder if I’d beg.
The thought sits there with me in the dark, not loud, not dramatic — just present, like a bruise you keep pressing because you need to know it’s real.
The sun comes up eventually, but it doesn’t bring peace. It brings dust across the hardwood and silence in the pipes. It brings a reminder that I still haven’t left. Still haven’t screamed. Still haven’t called the police or knocked on my neighbour’s door or thrown a brick through every camera I can find.
Because I’m not ready to lose control.
Because part of me needs to understand.
Needs to map this thing before it finishes swallowing me whole.
I shower, even though the idea of being naked under running water with him watching makes my skin crawl. I wear a towel for longer than necessary. Stand dripping on the tile and stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror, watching my own face blur and reform until I can’t tell where I end and the version of me he’s already seen begins.
I wonder when exactly I stopped being scared and started being split.
Because something inside me feels fractured.
Like I don’t know which version of me is real anymore.
The one who’s afraid?
Or the one who liked it?
My phone’s still on the floor where I dropped it last night. I pick it up. Check the camera first. Still hidden. Still there. Still watching.
He hasn’t messaged me again.
And that… hurts more than it should.
Because I didn’t just open the door — I held it for him.
And he walked through, rearranged the furniture, and sat down in the dark without asking.
