There’s a tremor under my ribs, not a heartbeat ... more like a machine testing its limits. I stand still and feel the room breathe in my place. Walls lean forward, waiting for my next mistake. I drag my fingers across the air as if it had texture. Something answers back .... a faint recoil, like touching the memory of a flame. I pretend it doesn’t scare me. It does. Nothing here is steady. Nothing wants to hold. Even my shadow flickers like it’s trying to leave first. Voices speak in temperatures, not words ... warmth for approval, cold for doubt, a sudden drop for truth. I listen anyway, because silence feels like a lie. If I disappear tonight, don’t look for clues .... I’ve never left any. I’m the kind of echo that exits the room before the sound is born. Zero pulse. Zero certainty. Just the long, low hum of something pretending to be me.
