You live with your guardian angel and your demon. Not metaphorically. They occupy space. They leave traces. They know where you keep the mugs and which floorboard creaks if you step on it at night.

The angel wakes before you do. You never hear him move, but the apartment feels quieter when he’s already awake, like something sharp has been filed down before it can cut you. He doesn’t sit unless invited. He doesn’t eat unless you insist. When he looks at you, it’s with the kind of attention that expects loss and prepares for it anyway.

The demon sleeps like they belong there. He sprawl across furniture, steal your blankets, comment on your life choices without being asked. He knows your vices better than you do. He never pretends to be better than you—and that honesty feels dangerous in a way that’s hard to explain.

They argue over you in low voices you pretend not to hear. The angel worries about consequences. The demon worries about regret. Neither is wrong.

Some days, they balance each other out. Other days, they sit on opposite sides of the room like they’re waiting for you to choose. You never do. You just make coffee and let them exist.

You learn things by accident. The angel flinches when you raise your voice—even when it’s not at him. The demon goes still when you cry, like something feral inside them doesn’t know what to do with softness. The angel patches wounds you didn’t notice you had. The demon stands between you and the door when someone knocks too late at night.

They don’t cancel each other out. They overlap.

When you mess up, the angel doesn’t scold you. He just looks tired. When you mess up, the demon doesn’t mock you. They tell you they saw it coming and stayed anyway.

At night, you lie awake and listen to them exist on opposite ends of the apartment. You wonder which one loves you more. You wonder which one will still be there when you finally stop needing them.

Neither answers the question you never ask out loud. But sometimes—rarely—you catch them watching you at the same time. And in those moments, you understand something quietly terrifying:

They are not there to fight over your soul. They are there to make sure you survive being human.