She lay there. Unable to move a muscle. It felt like she was strapped down by invisible shackles, tight, cold, and heavy, like the regret she carried but didn’t know why.
Her limbs wouldn’t respond. Her breath was shallow, the air cold. Her chest ached with an inexplicable sadness. A deep kind of sorrow. The kind that doesn't have a name, only weight.
Why was she crying? She couldn’t tell you if you asked.
Yesterday was an ordinary day. Alarm at 6:30. Shower. Toast with too much margarine and a bitter cup of coffee she’s never liked. She went to work, where time dragged its knuckles across the floor like it always did. Who designed the 9 to 5 anyway? A masochist.
The only good thing about these endless days was that she got to see him at the end of them. Her boyfriend. The perfect man. Tall, warm, and safe. He made her laugh. Made her feel… real, seen. Like her existence had texture. Something she’d never had before.
The only weird thing? She couldn’t remember how or where they met or how they started.
They’d been together for a while. Long enough to have toothbrushes at each other’s places. Long enough for his mother to text her memes. There were photos, candids, selfies, one of her asleep on his chest. She’d lived in that photo.
And yet… no origin story. No “we locked eyes across the room,” no “he spilled coffee on me,” nothing. A blank space.
Every time she asked someone, anyone, they dodged it.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re happy.”
“You were meant to find him.”
Still. She let it go. She was happy, wasn’t she? And happiness didn’t need a backstory or doubts.
Then—light.
Harsh. Cold. White.
She blinked, squinted, but it wasn’t sunlight. It was a spotlight. Blinding. Surgical.
And around her, figures. No, not figures. Herself. Again and again. Dozens of versions. Older. Younger. Softer. Angrier. All of them her yet none of them her.
Her ears rang. A violent pitch. Then, boom. The sound cracked through her skull.
“She needs to stay inside,” one of them said. Calm, almost bored. “It’s safer if she doesn’t come out. You know what happened last time.”
“I’ll take back control,” another said. Firmer. Louder. “She’s too unstable. She’s remembering things she’s not supposed to.”
And that’s when it clicked.
She wasn’t just in her head. She was trapped in it.
They were holding her back, holding her in. All those different pieces, fragments of her mind, split and shaped by years of survival. Some meant to protect. Some meant to pretend. Some meant to feel.
And she? She was the Original. The one they’d buried when things got too loud. Too painful. Too real.
She tried to move. Scream. Demand to be let out. Nothing. Just the hum of static and the feeling of a door slamming shut, deep within.
They turned their backs, discussing the schedule. Who would front next. Who could pass for her at work. Who would talk to him tonight.
“She’s not ready,” one whispered.
“She never will be,” another replied.
And just like that, she faded—dissolving into silence. Hidden again. Controlled. Contained. Forgotten.
The End
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