Chapter Text
the room hasn’t changed. still dim. still silent. still suffocating. the kind of silence that isn't empty — it's crowded; full of echoes, thoughts that crawl up the walls, cling to the ceiling like mold.
bob hasn't moved much. maybe shifted once. stretched his legs. pulled them back in. his body aches, not from action, but from stillness. from existing. it’s starting to feel like punishment.
he hasn't said anything since the last time. the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat and never quite made it out. they’re still there. like stones in his mouth.
but void…
“you’re still here?”
“damn. persistent little thing, aren’t you?”
“fine. let’s really talk, then.”
it’s colder now. he’s not sure if the temperature’s dropped or if it’s just him, slipping further into that place where nothing feels real. he wraps his arms around himself like a shield, but it doesn’t help. the voice isn’t on the outside.
”you remember what it felt like? before all this? when you still believed people could save you? what a joke. you were never built for happiness, bob. not with this mind. not with that thing in your chest pretending to be a heart.”
he digs his nails into his arms. sharp. deliberate. just enough to remind himself he’s still here. still tethered. the sting cuts through the numbness like lightning through fog. but it fades too quickly.
his voice is hoarse when it finally comes out, quiet and broken:
“please… stop.”
”no. i’m all you have. you don’t get to shut me out now. not when i’ve been the only one who’s stayed. everyone else leaves. i don’t.”
there’s a weight to the words now. heavier than before. like void is no longer just mocking him — it’s laying claim to him. staking territory in his mind like a parasite that’s grown too large to ignore.
“let’s face it: you’re not gonna get better. you’ve tried, haven’t you? therapy. meds. fake smiles. long showers. long walks. journaling. screaming into pillows. telling yourself you’re okay when you’re not. you’re still here. and i’m still louder than everything else.”
bob swallows hard. the truth hurts more than the voice itself. he has tried. god, he’s tried. but some nights—like this one—it all feels useless. like he’s bailing water from a sinking ship with his bare hands.
“no one’s coming. no cavalry. no rescue. you could disappear right now and no one would know until you started to rot.”
bob presses his palms to the floor, grounding himself. the hardwood is cold. real. but even that’s not enough. he’s unraveling. thought by thought. breath by breath.
and then— the voice lowers. not loud now. not cruel. worse.
soft. sweet. like a razor blade wrapped in silk.
“you could end it, you know. quiet. clean. no more weight. no more pretending. just peace. imagine it. the silence… but real this time.”
his heart skips. not in fear—in recognition. like something in him has been waiting to hear it said aloud.
he bites down on his bottom lip so hard it splits. the copper taste of blood rushes across his tongue. he focuses on that. anything but that voice.
but it doesn’t stop.
“you don’t have to suffer. not anymore. you’ve done enough. hurt enough. been hurt enough. you don’t even have to leave a note. just… fade.”
his body is trembling now. knees pulled back in tight, his nails digging half-moons into his skin. he whispers something, again and again, like a mantra. like a prayer.
“no. no. no. no. no…
and void—
“you will. maybe not tonight. but soon. and i’ll be there. i always am.”
then silence.
real silence.
the kind that leaves him alone with the damage.
and bob?
he doesn’t move. doesn’t cry. just breathes. shaky. shallow. but still breathing. because there’s a part of him—somewhere, small and buried—that still wants to fight. not tonight. maybe not tomorrow. but soon.
he just has to survive this hour.
this voice.
this night.