The Room I Built

I’ve avoided that room for years. Tonight, something inside knocks.
The door creaks when I push it open. Dust drifts in pale beams of light, falling on objects I recognize but can’t place. The air is thick, almost tasting of mildew and old paper. The walls stretch higher than I remember, shadows pooling in the corners, curling like fingers. I feel a chill skitter along my spine, as if the room is breathing with me.
The floorboards groan under my weight. A drawer slides open on its own, papers spilling across the floor. Scribbled notes, crumpled drawings, fragments of conversations I barely remember. And yet… they feel urgent, like they’ve been waiting.
A figure crouches in the far corner, knees pulled up, head down. It wears my old school uniform. The whispers start, soft, low, almost drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat but I recognize them immediately. Every mistake I’ve ever made, every word I wish I could take back.
I should run. I know I should. But my legs refuse. The air tastes metallic, like blood. My throat is tight. And then it lifts its head.
It’s my face. Swollen, twisted with all the years of anger, disappointment, and neglect I shoved away, pretending it didn’t matter. My own eyes glare at me with a fury I’ve long ignored.
I lunge for the door. It doesn’t budge. The figure leans forward, voice soft, merciless:
“You left me in here. Now it’s your turn.”
The walls seem to pulse, closing in. My chest burns. The shadows press against me, heavier than air. And then I realize the truth: this room isn’t real. It never was. Every object, every shadow, every whispered mistake. I built it in my mind. I spent my life piling regrets here, thinking out of sight meant out of mind. And now… the room has me.