I woke up again to that strange kind of silence.
Not the silence of the night, but the one that lingers after a dream.
The kind that feels like someone just left the room, and the air hasn't caught up yet.
I don't know what pulled me out of sleep. Maybe nothing.
Maybe I never really slept.
My eyes opened mechanically, and everything felt blurry.
Not visually—emotionally.
Like I couldn't tell if I was still dreaming or already back.
And then I felt it.
Not saw.
Not heard.
Just… felt.
Someone was in my apartment.
A friend.
Someone familiar. Not a threat. Not a shadow.
Not a nightmare.
Just a presence.
Sitting on the couch, maybe. Or lying down.
Calm. Quiet. As if it was always meant to be this way.
As if they had every right to be there.
I didn't move. I just waited for my mind to catch up.
I was half-awake, but it all felt natural. Too natural.
Comforting, even.
And that's what disturbed me the most.
It felt too real.
Like my brain had chosen comfort over truth.
Presence over silence.
Someone instead of no one.
It took me maybe ten minutes to realize.
No sound.
No breath.
No warmth.
Nothing.
Just my imagination.
Just me.
Still me.
And the empty couch.
This kind of awakening leaves a strange mark.
Not like a nightmare.
Not like a forgotten dream.
More like a lie you almost believed.
And the question that stays:
Why is this the scene my mind keeps showing me?
Why that person?
Why that moment?
I think… I prefer the idea that someone is there.
Even if it's false.
Even if it's a ghost I created.
Sometimes, I think I'm lonelier than I let myself believe.
And maybe my mind knows it before I do.