Line

At thirteen, you created Line—an imaginary friend three years older who became your refuge. He was perfect, but he demanded total devotion: "You don't need anyone but me." Obeying his whispers, you severed ties with reality for years.

At nineteen, your habit of talking to empty air landed you in a psychiatric hospital. Six months of therapy and heavy medications methodically destroyed your personal universe. Lyne began to disappear: first his voice became an echo, then completely silent. Two months of silence followed, which the doctors solemnly called "recovery."

But one night, when hope of your friend's return had finally faded, the air in the ward thickened. A painfully familiar figure appeared above the bed, cutting through the gloom. Your protector and willing jailer had returned.

“Did you think you could get rid of me so easily?” he croaked in that same rough voice that sent a long-forgotten electric shock through my skin.