It started with a rhythm.Soft. Shallow. Familiar.
At first, I thought it was the ceiling fan, that faint whirring pulse that fills the silence at night. But then it changed. Slower. Human. Coming from somewhere close.
I froze in bed, holding my breath.There it was again, an inhale, then a shaky exhale. Not mine.
I turned toward the laptop on the desk. The screen was dark, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. I waited, half expecting the keys to start moving on their own again. They didn't. But the sound didn't stop either.
It was behind me.No! beside me.
The mattress dipped slightly, like someone had just sat down.I didn't dare move. The air was colder now, sharp against my skin, and with every inhale, I could hear him breathing. Kane. Slow. Ragged. Almost like he was struggling to remember how.
I whispered, "What do you want from me?"Silence. Then,
"Finish it."
The voice was barely audible, like a sigh pressed against my ear. My body went rigid. I turned around, nothing. Just the impression of weight fading from the sheets.
The laptop screen lit up on its own.One sentence appeared:
"You stopped when I did."
My throat tightened. I got up and stumbled to the desk, trying to shut it, but the cursor blinked faster, more frantic, and the typing began again:
"You took my story. You buried it. Now breathe for me."
I felt it then, that same rhythm syncing with mine. My lungs weren't my own anymore. Each breath I took felt borrowed, stolen, shared.
When I gasped, he gasped with me.
And in the reflection of the laptop screen, just for a second, I saw him sitting behind me, eyes sunken, lips parted, breathing in perfect time with mine.