why did i touch this BUG...

Curiosity.

That’s always how it begins. A little too much bravery, a little too little caution, and suddenly you’re standing in a bathroom staring at the largest bug you’ve ever seen in your life.

There it was, in the bathtub. At first glance, I thought it was some kind of prank toy. It was too big, too glossy, too… unreal.

Its body was segmented like a roach on steroids, its shiny shell glistening under the bathroom light. The thing looked like a mix between a cockroach and an armored tank.

I should have shut the door and called pest control. I should have grabbed a broom, or maybe even a flamethrower.

Instead, I froze, captivated. My brain whispered the one dangerous thought that gets humans into all sorts of trouble: What if I touch it?

It wasn’t fear that held me—it was fascination. The bug wasn’t scurrying. It wasn’t even trying to escape.

It sat there calmly, like it owned the porcelain kingdom of my bathtub. That confidence made me hesitate. What kind of insect is so big and so sure of itself that it doesn’t even bother to run?

My hand hovered closer, like a moth to flame. And the whole time, my inner voice was split in two. One part screamed, Don’t you dare! The other whispered, Come on, you’ll never see something like this again.

I told myself I’d just tap it lightly, just enough to feel its texture. Was it soft like a caterpillar? Hard like a beetle? Cold? Warm? The scientist in me wanted data. The child in me wanted the thrill. The adult in me, sadly, was nowhere to be found.

So, I touched it.

The moment my finger grazed its shell, I knew I’d made a mistake. It wasn’t just hard—it was alive. Warm, buzzing with energy, almost humming under my skin.

The thing twitched, and I yanked my hand back instinctively. My heart leapt into my throat.

Then, slowly, deliberately, the bug turned its head. I didn’t even know bugs could turn their heads like that. Its antennae waved, scanning the air, and then it made a noise. A low hiss, like steam escaping from a kettle.

Why did I touch it? Why did I have to wake it?

The bug shifted, legs clicking against the smooth porcelain. Each leg was long, jointed, and disturbingly powerful. It wasn’t trapped. Not at all. It was simply choosing to stay there, waiting. And now it was aware of me.

I stepped back, trying to rationalize. Maybe it’s harmless. Maybe it’s just some exotic beetle that wandered in. Maybe it eats leaves, not people. But then I saw its mandibles flex, sharp and purposeful, like garden shears designed for flesh instead of grass.

I realized I had two choices: run, or escalate. My body froze in the most useless third option—stand there like an idiot.

The bug advanced. Not quickly, not lunging. Slowly. Testing me. Each step echoed in my skull, tiny claws scraping the tub.

I thought, absurdly, about how many horror movies start with someone ignoring the obvious warning signs. And here I was, starring in my own.

But here’s the thing: once you’ve touched something, you’ve crossed a line. You’re invested. That touch is a bond, however foolish.

You’ve made contact, and now it feels personal. I couldn’t just run away. I had to prove I was braver than a bug—even one the size of a loaf of bread.

So, I reached out again. Yes, again. Maybe I thought showing confidence would intimidate it. Maybe I thought if I touched it calmly, it would accept me, like some kind of insect handshake.

This time, it didn’t twitch. It didn’t hiss. It simply let me place my palm on its back. And then—I swear this is true—I felt it pulse. Like a heartbeat. Slow, steady, alive.

I pulled away, trembling. My brain screamed a hundred versions of Why did you touch this bug?! but none of them mattered anymore.

Because the truth had already sunk in: this wasn’t an ordinary bug. It wasn’t lost. It wasn’t random. It was here for a reason.

I backed out of the bathroom, shut the door, and stuffed a towel under the crack. My skin still tingled where I touched it, like its energy had seeped into me. I don’t know if it was poison, magic, or just adrenaline, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

All night I heard noises from behind that door. Skittering. Scratching. Once, a heavy thump. I didn’t dare open it. I couldn’t.

So why did I touch that bug? Because humans are foolish. Because curiosity is a curse. Because some part of me needed to know what it felt like.

And now I do.

But here’s the worst part: I don’t think it’s still in the bathroom. This morning, the door was ajar, the towel pushed aside. The tub was empty. And I’ve been hearing clicks and hisses in the walls ever since.

Maybe touching it wasn’t the mistake. Maybe touching it was the beginning.