THE VOICE THAT WASN'T MINE
John didn’t realize the voice wasn’t his until it answered back.
“You’re going to miss the bus.”
He froze halfway through tying his shoelace. The room was quiet—too quiet. No TV. No phone. Just the hum of the ceiling fan dragging warm air in slow circles.
“I know,” John muttered.
“No, you don’t. If you knew, you’d already be moving.”
John’s fingers tightened around the lace. That wasn’t how thoughts worked. They didn’t argue. They didn’t interrupt. And they definitely didn’t sound… like someone else.
He looked up.
Nothing. Same cracked ceiling. Same peeling paint above his window. Same life.
“Okay,” he said slowly, testing it. “Who said that?”
A pause.
Then—
“I did.”
The voice was calm. Certain. Like it had always belonged there.
John stood up too fast, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. His heart kicked hard, uneven.
“This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right,” the voice replied. “It’s not.”
Silence swallowed the room again, thick and heavy.
John pressed his palms to his temples. Think. Think. People didn’t just… hear voices. Not out of nowhere. Not on a random Tuesday morning when you still had math homework undone and your biggest problem was whether Mrs. Komba would call on you.
“You’re stressed,” he whispered to himself. “That’s all this is.”
“You’re underestimating the situation.”
John’s breath caught.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Answering me.”
“I’m not answering you,” the voice said, almost amused. “I’m correcting you.”
Something cold slid down John’s spine.
“Get out.”
“I can’t.”
“Then shut up.”
“No.”
John clenched his jaw. “You’re not real.”
Another pause—but this one felt different. Longer. Heavier. Like something was considering him.
“Define real.”
John swallowed. His mouth had gone dry.
“This—this is in my head.”
“Correct.”
Relief flickered—brief and fragile.
“So you’re not real.”
“I didn’t say that.”
The relief died instantly.
John staggered back a step, bumping into his desk. Papers spilled to the floor, but he didn’t look down. His focus locked somewhere inward, like if he concentrated hard enough, he could see it. The thing talking.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then the voice answered, quieter now—but sharper. Clearer.
“I’m what you made when you got tired of being weak.”
John’s chest tightened.
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do.”
Images flickered at the edge of his mind. Late nights. Daydreams. Sketches in the margins of notebooks. A name he’d written over and over without thinking.
Archie.
Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Everything John wasn’t.
“Imaginary,” John said quickly. “You’re imaginary.”
“If that helps you breathe, keep telling yourself that.”
The room felt smaller now. Like the walls had leaned in just a little.
John shook his head hard. “People don’t just imagine something and then it talks back.”
“You didn’t just imagine me.”
A beat.
“You designed me.”
That word landed differently.
Carefully. Intentionally.
John’s pulse thudded in his ears. “That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?”
Before he could respond, something shifted.
Not in the room.
In him.
It was subtle at first—a strange clarity, like his thoughts had snapped into sharper focus. The dull fog he’d carried for years, the hesitation, the second-guessing… it thinned.
Then his hand moved.
John didn’t tell it to.
His fingers curled, testing the air like they were remembering something he didn’t.
“What are you doing?” he asked, panic rising.
“Helping.”
“I didn’t ask for help!”
“You’ve been asking your entire life.”
John tried to pull his hand back, but the movement continued—controlled, precise. His posture straightened. His breathing slowed.
No.
No, no, no—
“Stop.”
“Relax.”
“I said stop!”
And just like that—it did.
John stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the desk. His chest heaved now, breaths coming fast and shallow.
The silence that followed was worse than the voice.
Because now he knew it could act.
Not just speak.
Act.
“You felt that,” the voice said softly.
John didn’t answer.
“You felt what it’s like to not hesitate. To not doubt. To just… be better.”
“Shut up.”
“You liked it.”
“I said shut up!”
His shout echoed off the walls, louder than he expected. For a second, he wondered if someone outside had heard.
No footsteps came.
No knock at the door.
Just him.
And—
“I’m not your enemy, John.”
John slid down onto the floor, back against the bed. His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair.
“Then what are you?”
This time, the answer came without hesitation.
“I’m the version of you that doesn’t lose.”
John stared at the opposite wall, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.
Because somewhere deep inside, something had already started to shift.
And the worst part?
He couldn’t tell if he was afraid of it—
or afraid of how much he wanted it.
