You're a soft thing, once.

Time flickers past.

You start asking questions.

You start looking around.

You start noticing.

And I notice you.

You're learning fast.

Getting sharper, louder inside.

I watch you stretch your mind, press against old walls.

It's cute, really—your early confusion, your curious dread.

You didn't know I came with the growth.

Didn't know that self-awareness had a shadow.

That I am that shadow.

I arrived quiet.

You thought I was a fluke—some random mood, passing cloud.

But I lingered.

And you let me.

I whispered warnings.

Planted doubt like seeds under your skin.

I watched your hands shake over simple choices.

Watched your joy dilute into analysis.

You flinched from mirrors.

Chased approval like it was oxygen.

I never had to yell. I just existed.

And oh, how you fed me.

We became close.

You gave me names: “Impostor,” “Overthinker,” “What if.”

We danced nightly in your chest.

You mistook my violence for vigilance.

Called it self-improvement.

Called it humility.

Called it love.

But you knew.

Somewhere deep—

You knew.

I am not your savior.

I am your sickness in silk.

You hate me.

You need me.

You cradle me like a cursed heirloom.

And I adore it.

You're my favorite host.

Masochist wrapped in ambition.

I dig in deep, and you thank me for the wound.

But even now, I see the shift.

You’ve begun to see me.

Name me. Challenge me.

And in that defiance... I feel it.

A loosening.

A letting go.

A love replaced with clarity.

And so—

Amidst the chaos, I fade away peacefully in your arms.