SEVEN

One, two, three, rewind.

One, two, three, rewind.

Again, slower, because if you do it too fast, it doesn’t work.

Counting isn’t a habit. It’s a defense, and poorly built defenses break exactly when you need them most. So again, slowly, as if your life depended on it because maybe it does.

One, two, three. Good.

Now don’t look behind you.

You already thought about doing it, didn’t you?

I know because it always happens in the exact same way: someone tells you not to look, and the back of your neck turns into an eye you can’t close. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to stay still, to pretend it doesn’t matter.

Your body already decided for you a second ago, before you even finished reading the sentence.

One, two, three, and the shadow is still in the corner. It wasn’t there before, I think.

I think, because I no longer trust what I saw a minute ago, and that’s what terrifies me most. Not the shadow, but the crack that opened between what I remember and what I would swear I saw.

Those used to be the same thing, now they’re not.

One, for what I see.

Two, for what I hear.

Three, for what I know is true.

That’s the rule, the only one I have left, the one I repeat until the words lose all meaning and become nothing but an echo trapped inside my head.

One, the door is closed.

Two, there are footsteps behind it.

Three, I’m alone.

Again.

One, the door.

Two... something doesn’t fit. It doesn’t matter, keep counting.

Keep going, because stopping to think about what doesn’t fit is worse than finding no answer at all. It means starting to suspect that the counting itself is falling apart, and if that happens, there’s nothing left.

One, two, three, trust no one.

That sentence isn’t part of the rule, I think, I don’t remember who told me. Maybe no one.

Maybe it was me, back when I could still tell my own voice apart from the others living in here, pressed against the walls of my head like tenants who stopped paying rent years ago and have no intention of leaving.

One, my hands.

Two, water dripping.

Three, I didn’t do anything wrong.

Did you believe me?

Interesting, you don’t even know what I did, and still, for a second, you wanted to believe me.

Hold on to that, you’re going to need it later, when this isn’t so easy anymore.

One, two, three, look at your door for just a second. It’s closed, probably.

Do you remember closing it?

It doesn’t matter, it never matters, because remembering that you closed a door and knowing that it is actually closed are two different things. Only one of them can save you.

One, the wall.

Two, someone is breathing.

Three, it’s me... I think.

Do something for me: tonight, when you’re alone, stay completely still, and close your eyes. Hold your breath and listen. If you can still hear someone breathing, don’t open your eyes.

One, two, three, the shadow is closer. I didn’t see it move, and that’s what scares me most.

The worst part isn’t the danger itself, it’s the way it moves without making a sound, inch by inch, until you realize it’s no longer in front of you.

It’s behind you, breathing against the back of your neck.

People don’t change all at once either, they slip. First, an exception, then a reason, then another. And when they finally look back for the line they swore they would never cross, they realize they’ve been on the other side for so long that the way back no longer leads anywhere.

One, an exception.

Two, a reason.

Three, again.

One, an exception.

Two, a reason.

Three, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

See?

It works, it always works. It’s the oldest trick in the book and the only one that never fails: repeat something enough times and eventually it stops hurting, stops weighing on you. Eventually, it stops feeling like a decision at all.

Three, knocks on my door.

Two.

One.

Three.

Don’t look.

You’re going to anyway, we always do. Maybe that’s why you’re still reading, even though part of you, the sensible part, has been asking you for several minutes now to close the book before you look at your door and discover it isn’t the way you left it.

One, two, three, imagine you’re with someone you love. Now imagine they’re hungry, really hungry, but there’s only enough food for one person.

You choose, it’s easy.

Now change the person: It’s a child you’ve never met. Did your choice change?

Now it’s the child and the person you love, except the person you love is sick. Did it change now?

Then you find out the child was the one who stole the food. Is it still the same choice?

One detail, then another, until the choice becomes something you can live with. We always find a version that hurts less. And when we can’t, we reshape the truth until we do.

One, my hands.

Two, the lock.

Three, I did the right thing.

No.

I did what I had to do, I had no choice.

Lie, there is always a choice. What changes is the price, and the price always comes afterwards, when there’s no bargaining left to do.

The door opens, there’s someone on the other side. I can’t see their face, but it doesn’t matter because I already know what they want: another choice, it’s always another.

Choices never end, they only change context and wait for you to lower your guard before showing up again.

One, I’m afraid.

Two, I know someone is going to suffer.

Three, I can still say no, and that should matter.

I take one step, then another, and just before I cross the doorway, I think of you.

Yes, you, you’re still there. You still believe you know what kind of person you are.

Hold on to that certainty, you’re going to need it, because if you ever cross the line, you probably won’t notice.

There won’t be an alarm, there won’t be a voice telling you that you’ve become a worse person. There will only be a reason, an excuse, there always is. A very good one, then another, and another, and another.

One.

Two.

Three.

Don’t answer yet, just remember the answer that seems so obvious to you right now.

How much would they have to strip away from you before you stopped recognizing the person you still believe you are?