It’s the presence that waits for you in the silence,
the thing that doesn’t need eyes
to watch you.
It slips in when the room goes quiet,
when the air grows still,
when you finally think you’re alone.
It’s patient—almost gentle—
as it curls around the edges of your thoughts
like frost spreading across a windowpane.
You don’t see it.
You feel it.
A slow awareness that something is there,
too close,
too familiar.
It rearranges your memories
just slightly—
enough to make you question
what happened
and what you think happened.
It blurs the line between the two
until you can’t trust the ground you’re standing on.
It whispers in a voice
that sounds almost like yours,
but not quite—
like someone learned your tone
by listening through the walls.
It knows the places your mind goes
when you’re tired.
It knows the thoughts you’re afraid to admit to yourself.
It knows the cracks in your armor,
the ones you swear aren’t visible.
And it sits there,
in the dim corners of your mind,
waiting for the moment
you confuse its breath for your own.
Because that’s how it gets you—
not with fear,
not with violence,
but with familiarity.
It doesn’t need to break down the door.
It only needs you to open it
thinking you’re letting yourself in.
Through the Fog 