"The Night My Shadow Talked Back"

It started on a Tuesday — one of those days that passes like a half-remembered dream. I had barely made it through work, mumbling through meetings, answering emails like a ghost. I didn’t remember eating lunch. Or breakfast. Or breathing.

The sun was gone by the time I trudged up the stairs to my apartment. The hall light flickered overhead. I didn’t notice that my shadow lingered a moment longer than I did.

Inside, I didn’t turn on the lights. Darkness was simpler. The TV blinked on automatically — the remnants of a forgotten timer. Laughter echoed from a sitcom I didn’t recognize. I stared blankly at the screen, seeing nothing.

Then I heard it.

“You’re doing it again,” said a voice, low and gravelly, but... familiar.

I looked around. The apartment was empty. I live alone. Always have.

“I said,” the voice repeated, “you’re doing it again.”

I turned toward the voice — and that’s when I saw it.

My shadow — not quite mine anymore.

It stood up from the wall where it had always clung like a loyal servant. Only now it was moving independently, stretching its limbs like it had just woken up after years of sleep. It had no eyes, no mouth, and yet I could feel it staring at me.

“What... are you?” I whispered, heart pounding.

“I’m you,” it said calmly. “The part you’ve been ignoring. The weight you’ve shoved into corners. The voice you drowned in coffee, memes, and overwork.”

I blinked. “You’re not real.”

“Neither is the version of you you’ve been pretending to be,” it said with a chuckle that sounded too much like mine. “Let’s call me... your truth.”

I stumbled backward, knocking over a stack of dishes in the sink. It moved when I did, but not like a shadow — more like a memory following a pattern.

“Go away,” I said, trembling. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Exactly,” it hissed, stepping closer. “You never have time. Not for rest. Not for breath. Not for me. You walk through your life like it’s a hallway with no doors.”

I closed my eyes. I thought of the anxiety I’d ignored. The journal I stopped writing in. The friend I ghosted. The nights spent lying awake at 2 AM, wondering what was wrong with me, then waking up and pretending everything was fine.

“You can’t keep going like this,” the shadow whispered. “You’re cracking.”

Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them. “What do you want from me?”

“To be heard. To be seen,” it said, softer now. “Not hidden. Not locked in the back of your mind with the rest of the 'ugly' parts. I’m not your enemy.”

I collapsed onto the floor, breathing in hiccups. The shadow sat beside me — or rather, its shape folded next to mine like a quiet echo.

“I’ve always been here,” it said. “When you stayed in bed for days and said you were just tired. When you laughed too loud so no one would ask questions. When you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize who you were.”

“I thought I was broken,” I whispered.

“No,” it said. “You’re just human.”

The silence between us grew comfortable — not empty, but full. I realized I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was... exhausted. But seen.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” it replied. “You just have to stop pretending it’s not there. Let me walk beside you — not behind. Not in the dark. Let’s figure it out together.”

I sat up slowly. The shadow didn’t disappear. It simply settled beside me, like a quiet friend. I turned on the lamp, and for the first time, my shadow didn’t vanish in the light — it softened.

That night, I wrote for the first time in months. Nothing dramatic — just a few lines of honesty. I messaged the friend I’d ghosted. I took a breath. And then another. Each one felt like reclaiming a piece of something I’d lost.

My shadow didn’t talk again that night. But I felt it, always near. Not looming. Just present.

Not a burden — but a companion.

And in that still, quiet space between night and morning, I finally understood:

Healing doesn’t mean erasing the darkness.

Sometimes, it just means letting your shadow speak.