I didn’t leave the house for a few days. 

My phone sits beside me, going off every few hours with missed calls and texts from Della. I haven’t been interested in having any contact with the outside world recently. I’m not in the mood to have to explain to Della why I’ve been holed up in here, not wanting to tell her about my hallucinations. 

Most importantly, I’m not ready to hear her call me crazy. Since the incident where I fell asleep in the bath, I haven’t been haunted by any more hallucinations. My dreams have been persistent, of course. But that strange silver eyed man hasn’t returned. 

It’s almost disappointing. 

Instead of allowing myself to wallow in my pity, I’ve been writing. It’s been the only constant thing in my life. Wake up, write, sleep. It makes me happy. 

Suddenly, my peaceful environment is ruined, as the front door I swung open, and Della comes inside. She folds her umbrella up, leaving it dripping at my doorstep. White plastic bags are hung over her arms, filled with groceries. 

“God, when is this damn storm going to pass? It’s been over a week,” she mutters, walking into my kitchen. 

I remain in my seat, refusing to get up and allow her to think she was welcomed in here. The last thing I expected was for someone to waltz in here and see my working environment. It’s honestly a disgrace, with the curtains closed – only my lamp remaining on – a half-eaten bowl of stir-fry on the table, snack wrappers everywhere, and blankets scattered across the living room with no rhyme or reason. 

Della returns from the kitchen, placing her hands over her hips, looking at me pointedly. I return my gaze to my computer, hoping she will walk away. 

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” she questions. 

“I have a deadline for this book, Della. The rest of the world will have to wait a few more days,” I mutter, pretending to type a few words across my keyboard, but none of it makes sense. I’m thankful that I at least have a job which will not only support me money wise, but allow me to stay inside when I need to the most.

Della flings the curtains open, making me hiss. I hadn’t even noticed that it was still storming outside, until I see the rain slamming against the glass. The sun is beginning to set, also. My time perception has been all over the place. 

“Tomorrow morning, I’m taking you to see another therapist. You’ve gotten so much worse, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you wither away into nothingness,” Della demands.

I sigh, kicking my slippers together. 

“I’ve brought your groceries, which you’re going to use. You’re going to shower, brush your hair, and go out with me to get you some real medication,” Della demands, coming to lean against the chair I sit on. 

“You talk to me as if I’m sick,” I mutter. Della narrows her eyes on me, as if I just swore. I know she feel burdened by me. The last thing she wants is to care for me. 

“You are sick…” she says warily. She hops away from my chair, moving around the room to collect my wrappers, trying to look as though she is helping me. I want to make a note that I was planning to clean it up, but there is no point in lying. “Nothing has helped so far, so this is the last option before you lose me forever. Got it?”

It’s not a threat I’ve heard before. But I’m lazy…

“I’m okay. I’ve been putting my head down and getting work done,” I comment, motioning down to my computer. Half true, I suppose. 

“What are you writing anyway?” she asks, coming to peek at my screen. 

Before I had time to consider my next action, I slam down the screen, sliding the laptop to the ground, where it clatters loudly. I’m not sure where my aversion to having her read my work came from, but suddenly I don’t want her to see my inner thoughts. When I recall what I last wrote, I somehow fail to remember. What have I even been writing about for these last few days? It all feels like a dark blur. 

“You’ll see it when it’s done,” I comment shakily, leaning over to retrieve the fallen laptop. “And I’ll come to you to see a different therapist, but only on the condition that this is truly the last one.”

“Deal,” she replies. 

I’m agreeing to get her off my back. I know Della isn’t going to leave until I agree, so no that she has what she wants, maybe she will find interest in something else. When she doesn’t right away, I assume she wants to be entertained. 

“What have you been doing anyway? So bored you have to contact me?” I comment, brushing chip crumbs off my thighs. 

“I’m seeing someone,” she indulges. 

I’m not surprised. Della has plenty of friends, but never fails to see the enjoyment in tormenting me with her successful life. It’s the strange relationship between us. She feels an obligation to care for me, but that’s as far as she will go. The moment I can handle life on my own, I doubt I’ll see her much. 

“What happened to the last guy?” I ask tiredly. 

“I met someone better. A lot more entertaining, you know. If you went out there and tried again, maybe you would met someone better than the guy who stood you up at the coffee shop,’ she comments. Ah yes, the lie in which I will admit I shared with her. I tried to convince her that my date never showed up in the first place. That way she can’t put the doubt on me, where it so rightfully belongs. 

However, for some strange reason, her words irk me. “I am seeing someone, actually.”

I hate that I said that.

Della’s eye light up. “Wait, seriously?”

She puts down her rubbish collecting duties to come to sit on the couch, leaning forward with genuine curiosity in her eyes. If I distract Della with gossip, she will be less inclined to look into the darker aspects of my life.

“Yes, and he’s very attractive. Magically attractive. He’s got beautiful silver eyes, dark wavy hair and flawless skin. You’d be very impressed,” I find myself saying.

I feel almost guilty, bringing up the man from my dreams. Surely, I’ll tell her later that we never worked out, and that she shouldn’t ask again. She will respect that, at least. Yet still, I feel almost sick to my stomach thinking about him like that. He’s just a figment of my imagination, that I made up one day in the bath. Strange.

“When do I get to meet him?” Della asks. 

“Not yet. I have to decide whether he’s good or not for me, you know?” I say softly, looking down at my hands. 

“You’re not just talking to him online are you?” She asks, remembering the older times where I would justify my loneliness by saying I had friends online. To me it was valid, but she put me to shame one to many times, and I stopped.  “You know, sexting?”

I screw my face up. “No Della. We aren’t all like you.”

“Whatever, I’m going to go out there and brave the weather again. I’ll pick you up for your appointment tomorrow,” Della says getting to her feet. I watch her pick up her umbrella, looking back at me to flash a tight smile, before she walks out the door, and back into the cold, raging storm outside. 

“Uh huh,” I farewell. 

The door slams.


Glancing up, I realise the man from my hallucinations is sitting at my window seat, watching me. I’m not sure what has triggered this sudden fall into a state of dreaming, but regardless, I’m too tired to complain. Instead, I pull myself out of the chair, walking around the room to start clearing what Della had left. She would be happy to know she inspired me. 

“Everything is interesting to you,” I grumble, circling the room. The man remains in my window seat, his face shadowed with the light flooding in behind him. I still see those striking eyes which watch me intently, as if what I’m doing is actually interesting to me. 


I cast him a glance, eyebrow raised. Since when was a figment of my hallucinations so witty? I know I’m not this witty. 

“We are the same person, I guess…” I sigh. I decide, once I completed my cleaning, to approach him warily. It’s so strange, seeing him sitting there, as if I could touch him right now and he would actually exist. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“You’re using me as your model boyfriend?” he says. Cutting to the chase, I see. 

“You were the first to come to my mind when I thought of a way to get my sister off my back. Don’t even think twice about that,” I tell him. I’m unsure if that is true. Either way, I can tell this is my guilty mind trying to explain away its problems. 

“I wasn’t,” he tells me. “I’m just curious-“

Of course, I’m listening to him, however, absentmindedly, I turn the TV on, wanting any other sound in the room. However, what I see on TV shocks me into completely silence. I realise now, why the man, in my hallucinations looks so familiar. I see him standing there, a news report happening on him. I see him right there, staring into my soul. 

That’s an Immortal. That’s Thought. 

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