Chapter Text
the room is dim. not dark. not light. just that grey space in between where shadows don’t stretch, and sunlight doesn’t bother trying to reach. the kind of quiet that buzzes in the ears after the world has gone still, not peaceful silence, but the kind that feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. oppressive. heavy. too much and not enough, all at once.
bob sits on the floor. legs crossed, back against the cold wall, one hand loosely holding onto the hem of his shirt like it might anchor him if he starts to float too far from himself. his eyes are fixed on a crack in the floorboards. or maybe he’s not looking at anything. maybe he’s just… gone again. somewhere deep. somewhere hollow.
his hair’s a mess. stubble growing in patches. dark circles under his eyes like bruises, like he’s been fighting something in his sleep and losing. it’s been— what? a day? two? maybe more. it all blurs together when the fog sets in like this.
the clocks tick but the minutes don’t move. he hasn’t eaten. the last thing he remembers is standing in the kitchen with the fridge door open, staring into the white light like it might offer answers. it didn’t.
his chest rises. falls. slow. almost mechanical. it’s the only thing reminding him he’s still here. still in his body. still alive.
and then—
“pathetic.”
the word slices through the stillness like a blade to skin. bob doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look up. he just blinks, once, like he was expecting it.
“look at you. a goddamn wreck. you think this is recovery? this—this rot? you’re wasting time. wasting breath. wasting space.”
his fingers twitch. he closes his eyes. tries to breathe slower, like maybe he can outpace it. drown it out.
he whispers,
“don’t.”
“don’t what? tell you the truth? come on, bob. you need me. i’m the only one who says what you won’t.”
the voice isn't coming from anywhere. not really. it’s not the walls. not the ceiling. it’s inside him. deep. coiled around his spine like a parasite that’s been there since he was old enough to understand shame.
“you think you’re some tragic little survivor story? no one wants to hear it. they’re tired of your sob story. tired of waiting for you to stop being like this.”
his hands press to his temples. rub hard like he could scrub the voice out, or crack his skull open and let it out like smoke. but it’s no use. it never is. void doesn’t leave. it just waits. watches. digs its claws in deeper when he’s vulnerable.
“they’d be better off without you. admit it. you’ve thought about it. just walking away. vanishing. no notes. no goodbyes. not like anyone would chase you. not really.”
and that’s the worst part.
he has thought about it. more times than he can count. not death, exactly — not the finality of it. but the idea of just... disappearing. ceasing to be a problem. letting the world breathe a little easier without him taking up space in it.
he curls in tighter. forehead to knees. every breath feels heavier now. like it takes effort just to keep his lungs moving. he’s exhausted, not from doing anything, but from existing. from thinking. from feeling this way for so long without a break.
“remember when you used to fight back? now you just let it happen. let me in. maybe you’re starting to see the truth, huh? maybe you’re finally getting honest with yourself.”
his voice is a rasp, raw from disuse.
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t. you hate you. i’m just the echo. you created me. i’m your shadow. i don’t say anything you haven’t already thought.”
he chokes on air. maybe a sob. maybe just the weight of those words settling on his chest. he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard enough to see stars. he wants it to stop. just for a second. he wants quiet. real quiet. not this twisted, venom-dripping version that lives inside his skull.
but the room offers no mercy. it never does.
he stays like that—folded in on himself, stuck somewhere between now and never—for what could be minutes or hours. it’s hard to tell. the voice quiets, eventually. not out of kindness. just boredom. like it knows it’s already won today.*
and bob?
he’s still here. still breathing. still trying, in the smallest, slowest way possible. and maybe that counts for something. maybe not.
but for now, it’s all he’s got.