(POV Sofia.)
It hurt in a way I never knew how to explain, a kind of pain that doesn't bleed but tightens your chest until there's no air left, and even so I pulled away from Luke, believing that silence would be less destructive than the truth. He didn't get angry, didn't show resentment, he simply went on with his life as if I had slowly faded away, and that hurt me more than any confrontation ever could have, because while I hid behind distance, he kept existing without me. Even so, I never stopped watching him, never stopped following him with my eyes, as if keeping Luke within my line of sight was the only way to make sure he still belonged to me, even if only inside my mind.
Ethan naturally took the place beside me, supported by a story other people created and that he accepted without question, believing that at some point we had something real, something that never existed the way he imagined it. I hated that false closeness, but I kept up appearances, smiled when it was convenient, touched him when it was expected, until I realized how easy it was to guide him, how a soft smile and a sweet voice were enough to make him do whatever I wanted. He became useful, predictable, a tool, even though he was my childhood friend, and that didn't make me feel guilty, because deep down I knew that the only person who ever truly mattered was Luke, my only love, the only one who filled every empty space inside me.
I went through all of high school carrying that feeling like something forbidden, believing that with time I would learn to control myself, that I would overcome my fears and finally tell him the truth, but that day never came, and when I realized it I was already in college, living a life chosen by my parents, trying to be someone who didn't belong to me. I chose Nutrition because it was the least suffocating option, but none of that truly mattered, because Luke was there too, at the same university, in a different major, walking the same hallways, making it impossible to pretend I had moved on.
Since high school I had kept photos of him, taken secretly, simple moments that I turned into something precious, and in college that continued, perhaps even more intensely, because with each passing day Luke seemed more mature, more handsome, and that made something stir inside me, something I kept carefully locked away. Still, there was a certain relief in believing he wasn't romantically involved with anyone, a comfortable illusion that allowed me to breathe, until the day I saw him in the cafeteria beside Vanessa, laughing with her as if it were natural, and I felt the first locks break inside my chest.
At home, surrounded by his photos in my room, I tried to calm down, but my thoughts wouldn't let me sleep, piling up until they became unbearable, and that was when the voice returned, at first low, almost gentle.
"I warned you this would happen."
"You were always too weak to hold onto him."
I tried to ignore it, tried to pretend I still had control, but the video from the party appeared soon after, Luke defending another woman like a hero, and something inside me finally gave in, as if several locks broke at the same time.
"See?" the voice insisted. "He's drifting away."
"Shut up," I murmured, pressing my hands against my head, but it didn't stop.
"Let me take over. Let me love him the right way."
I still resisted, or at least I tried to, until the day I saw him again, sitting at a table with several women, all too beautiful, too close, and in that moment the air left my lungs, my whole body reacted before my mind, and the voice screamed so loudly that I could no longer ignore it. In the bathroom, in front of the mirror, I stared at my reflection and noticed something different in my eyes, something I had been avoiding for years.
"This is your fault," the voice accused.
"I know," I answered, feeling the tears burn.
"You were supposed to be by his side."
"I know."
"You prefer to pretend, to be your parents' puppet."
"Stop," I whispered, but it no longer sounded like denial.
"Stop pretending," it continued. "Stop being afraid. Take off that mask."
I took a deep breath, my chest aching, and when the voice demanded once more — "Let me take over" — I didn't feel the urge to fight, only a deep exhaustion, as if resisting had been more painful than accepting. I touched the mirror with my fingertips and smiled at my reflection.
"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You're not going to replace me."
There was a brief, heavy silence.
"Then what do you want?"
"Let's become one."
And at that moment, something inside me finally aligned in a disturbingly comfortable way, as if what had always been chaotic had found its own order, twisted, but functional. I left the bathroom with my breathing still uneven, relieved that there was no one there to witness that intimate moment of rupture, and walked down the hallway with steady steps, feeling a new confidence seep into me, dense, almost warm. A plan had formed with too much clarity to be ignored, and I knew exactly who the central piece was for everything to work: Ethan. Earlier, he had casually mentioned that he was going to a karaoke with his friends, and that sentence now pulsed in my mind like an inevitable call.
I never liked those places, the noise, the smoke, people showing off, but that night none of it mattered. I met Ethan as usual, wearing my social mask perfectly, the gentle smile, the sweet posture, while inside something smiled in a very different way, deeper, more interested. That mask, which once existed to please my parents and maintain the image they expected of me, now had another function; it was a tool, and I knew how to use it. I agreed to go to the karaoke, but I made a point of setting a condition, spoken carefully, almost like an innocent request: Luke had to go too. Ethan's discomfort was immediate, visible, and I offered the perfect excuse, saying it might be a chance to fix our relationship with Luke, after all he was still an important friend. He hesitated, questioned it, but it was enough to soften my voice and let my eyes grow a little sad for him to give in. When he agreed, I smiled in thanks, and his face flushed.
"Pathetic," my inner voice commented, dryly.
I silently agreed.
The first piece was in place. I was sure Luke would accept the invitation, because curiosity had always been one of his weaknesses, and I knew that better than anyone. I skipped my afternoon classes without any guilt, and throughout the day a specific memory kept returning: a recent party, one of those I attend only to keep up appearances. There, I saw a guy trying to put a substance into a girl's drink, and I acted immediately, took a photo, threatened to report him. To avoid trouble, I demanded that he hand over the package and promise never to do it again. Even so, as a precaution, I posted the proof anonymously, and it eventually reached the police. I meant to throw the substance away later, but I ended up forgetting the package at the bottom of my bag. I never imagined I would use something like that, but now everything seemed to have been waiting for this moment. On the way home, I bought what was still missing, repeating to myself that it was just planning, nothing more.
Only the last piece remained, and it was far too easy. One of Ethan's friends had already gone through a humiliation that stayed within the group: a leaked intimate photo, something I had pretended to help erase to maintain my good image. I convinced everyone to delete it, including Ethan, but I never deleted my copy. Maybe part of me always knew it would be useful. I sent her a message asking her to distract a guy that night. She refused, nervous, saying she wasn't comfortable talking to strangers. Then I sent the photo in single-view mode, along with a simple, cruel sentence: either you do this, or this image will spread across the campus.
"You can't do this," she replied, desperate.
"I can, and you know it," I thought calmly.
She threatened to tell others, and I just laughed inside; who would they believe? Her, or me. Cornered, she agreed.
At the karaoke, everything bothered me more than usual. The loud voices, forced laughter, the smell of alcohol and smoke seemed to cling to my skin, and I oscillated between artificial calm and an anxiety that made my hands tremble slightly. Ethan's friends were already there and, as always, treated me like a priority, predictable sycophants, while I played my role. I sat beside the girl I was blackmailing and explained, in few words, what she needed to do. Her frightened look almost made me laugh.
"Don't shake now," my inner voice whispered. "You've come too far."
When Ethan arrived, being the center of attention as always, and Luke appeared right behind him, my heart raced painfully. For a moment, I thought I might throw up. He didn't notice me at first, sitting isolated in the corner with that expression of someone who wanted to leave, while Ethan lost himself among the others.
"It's now," the voice inside me repeated, excited.
"Calm down," I answered myself. "Control."
I approached slowly, anxiety burning in my chest, and spoke to him using the softest voice I could manage. When I heard my name come out of his mouth after so long, something broke and reformed inside me at the same time.
"I love you," my inner voice began, repetitive, obsessive.
"Not now," I thought. "Later."
I sat beside him, my hands sweaty, pretending normalcy while every second felt stretched. Talking to Luke, hearing his voice, feeling his closeness, left me both euphoric and on the edge of collapse. When he asked for a soda, I felt a strange relief, almost a silent triumph. The girl approached, played her part, and while his attention was divided, the substance was poured into the cup. The dark room helped; no one noticed anything, and I forced my face to remain neutral, even as my heart pounded uncontrollably.
Luke turned his attention back to me, and I pretended to look at my phone to hide the smile that insisted on forming. He finished the drink without suspecting anything, and shortly after began to feel unwell. When he stood up, staggering, I felt a mix of tension and satisfaction wash over me. I followed him, supported his body against mine when he could no longer walk properly, and called a taxi with a calm that surprised even me. When the driver asked what we were, I naturally replied that we were dating and that he had drunk too much.
With Luke unconscious beside me, the car headed toward my house, and as I watched the city pass by the window, I felt the instability inside me finally quiet down, replaced by a cold, silent certainty.
The ride to my house felt too short and too long at the same time, because as the taxi moved through the irregularly lit streets, I watched Luke unconscious beside me, his head slumped, his breathing heavy, and felt my heart beat so loudly it seemed to betray everything I was trying to keep silent. I touched his arm just to make sure he was still there, real, and the voice inside me whispered, satisfied, almost affectionate: "Finally," as if that moment had been written long before I had the courage to accept it. The driver asked no more questions, and I held my mask perfectly, even feeling anxiety and euphoria mix in a way that made me slightly dizzy.
When we arrived, I paid quickly and asked for help getting him out of the car, supporting his weight against me with excessive care, as if any rough movement could break something precious. Each step to the door brought loose memories, scenes from the past, stolen glances, hidden photos, all fitting together in a disturbingly logical way.
"See how easy it was?" the voice commented, satisfied.
"Don't ruin it now," I replied silently, focused only on getting inside unnoticed.
Inside the house, the silence felt denser than usual. I led Luke to the bedroom calmly, sitting him in the chair I had already prepared beforehand, as if that organization were just coincidence. Tying him up didn't cause the shock I imagined; there was only a strange sense of continuity, as if this were the natural conclusion of something that had been happening inside me for years. My hands trembled, but not from regret, rather from anticipation.
"Slowly," I murmured to myself.
"He's not going anywhere," the voice replied, satisfied.
I stepped back a few paces and observed the scene for a few seconds, feeling an uncomfortable warmth spread through my chest. Luke was still unconscious, his head hanging, vulnerable in a way that made me swallow hard. Before too many thoughts reached me, I decided to step away. I needed a shower, hot water running over my skin, as if that could organize the chaos in my head. In the bathroom, I pressed my hands against the wall, took a deep breath, and let the water fall, while the voice murmured questions and answers at the same time.
"What if he wakes up?"
"He'll wait."
"What if he screams?"
"You thought of everything."
I left the bathroom, the hallway completely dark as I stopped in the middle of it, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet and the silence of the house pulse in a way that felt almost alive. Then I heard it — a low, irregular movement, the barely perceptible sound of someone trying to move — and I knew, even before seeing anything, that Luke had woken up.
My heart raced, not with surprise, but with pure anticipation, that strange feeling of when something finally happens exactly the way you imagined it dozens of times. I lightly rested my hand against the wall, taking a deep breath, while the voice inside me whispered, satisfied: "Now. It's now."
The bedroom light remained off, but I knew exactly what he was seeing at that moment: the excessive organization, the soft pink that dominated everything, the photos on the wall revealing a level of care that shouldn't exist. I imagined panic forming slowly, his heart racing as he realized the restraints, and that sent a pleasant shiver through me, almost comforting. I stayed in the hallway, not entering, letting him have those seconds of absolute confusion, because part of me believed he needed to understand, even if he would never accept it.
"You finally woke up," I said then, my voice low and gentle, letting the words travel through the dark hallway and reach the bedroom before I did. I knew the tone was wrong for the situation, and that was exactly why it worked. The voice inside me chuckled softly. "See? He's listening. He always listens to you."
I waited another moment, just listening to his breathing grow faster, imagining his eyes scanning the walls covered in photos, trying to find logic where there was none. Only then did I take the first step toward the bedroom, slowly crossing the line between the hallway shadows and the softly lit space, feeling a strange calm spread through my body. There was no more urgency, no doubt. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
And as I entered, I knew that would be the moment Luke finally understood that he hadn't woken up from a nightmare — he had woken up with me.