I don't remember when I stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like a ghost.
Maybe it was the first time my sister looked at me and said, "You're not the brother I knew." Or maybe it was when my father stopped asking me to come home for dinner.
I don't know.
All I know is that now, I move through the world like I'm behind glass. Everyone's loud, close, alive. And I'm just… watching.
I used to talk. I used to laugh. I used to sit with my mom in the kitchen, drinking tea, telling her stupid stories from work. Now, I sit in silence. At family dinners, I nod when someone speaks to me, give one-word answers, and stare at my plate. I can feel their eyes on me, my mother's soft worry, my sister's quiet anger, my father's disappointment.
I want to say something. Anything. But the words get stuck somewhere deep inside, like they're afraid of what will happen if they come out.
So I drink.
Not because I like it. Not because it's fun.
I drink because it's the only thing that makes the silence inside me feel… normal. When the bottle's in my hand, the loneliness doesn't scream. It just hums low and steady, like background noise. And for a few hours, I can pretend I'm okay. I can pretend I'm not the broken thing everyone tiptoes around.
Outside, I've learned to disappear.
I keep my head down on the train, earphones in even when there's no music. I walk fast, shoulders hunched, like if I make myself small enough, people won't notice I'm there. At work, I answer emails, do my tasks, smile when I have to. But I never join group lunches. I never go out after work. I sit at my desk long after everyone leaves, just so I don't have to face the empty apartment too soon.
People think I'm cold. Distant. Rude, maybe.
But the truth is, I'm terrified.
Every time someone tries to talk to me, I feel panic crawl up my chest like I'm about to say the wrong thing, or worse, that they'll see how empty I really am. So I stay quiet. I keep my distance. I let friendships fade. I let invitations go unanswered.
It's easier this way. Less painful.
Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through old photos. Me as a kid, grinning with my dog. Me in high school, arm around friends. Me at my graduation, my parents so proud. And I wonder who that boy was. Where he went. Because the man I am now doesn't know how to be happy. Doesn't know how to be close to anyone. Doesn't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden.
"Is it really me? I don't even remember the last time my eyes were filled with color…"
I want to change. I really do. I want to put the bottle down, to call my sister, to sit with my parents and talk like we used to. But every time I try, the fear comes back.
The fear that I'm too far gone. That I've hurt them too much. That even if I stop drinking, I'll still be alone.
That the loneliness isn't just from the bottle....
It's from me.
So I stay quiet. I stay small. I stay alone.
And every night, I whisper the same two words into the dark, like a prayer I don't believe in anymore:
"Not me."
Izumi gasped.
The world shattered.
Cold slammed into his lungs. His feet struck uneven ground. Darkness swallowed the city, the rain, the memories all of it tearing away like skin ripped from bone.
The Void roared back into existence.
He was running.
The sound came immediately closer than before.
Scrape. Drag. Breathe.
The creature was still behind him.
Closer.
So close he could feel it now not hear, not see but feel it pressing against the fabric of the world, bending it toward him. The mist rippled violently around his legs as he ran, breath tearing from his chest.
The memory clung to him like a second shadow.
Not me. Not me.
His foot slipped. He barely caught himself. Behind him, something shifted.
The crawling sped up.