The first time you said his name, you were five years old, sitting on your bedroom floor with sunlight spilling across the carpet.

You had been talking to yourself—rambling about nothing—when something answered back.

“You talk a great deal.”

The voice wasn’t in the room.

It was inside.

“…Who are you?” you asked.

A pause.

Then—

“Apollo.”

⸻

You told your parents that night.

You told them he spoke to you, that he knew things, that he wasn’t pretend.

They smiled gently.

“An imaginary friend.”

“I told you they wouldn’t understand,” he murmured later.

“You’re not imaginary,” you insisted.

A soft, warm laugh.

“No,” he agreed.

⸻

After that came the looks.

Strangers eyes finding yours when you spoke too loud to no one.

When your parents would chuckle nervously and change the subject.

People didn’t understand.

So you stopped saying his name out loud.

That was the deal.

You could keep him—so long as no one else had to know.

⸻

For a while, he was constant.

A quiet presence threaded through everything.

“Count something else. Sheep are dull.” “You’re allowed to be angry. Just don’t let it decide for you.”

And sometimes—

Things you couldn’t explain.

A song in your head before it ever played. Answers arriving too soon. Warmth, even in the dark.

Then you got older.

And the world got louder.

⸻

At first, you still answered him—half-listening.

“Mm.” “Yeah.” “I know.”

“You’re busy,” he noted once.

You didn’t deny it.

It wasn’t a fight.

You just… stopped.

Stopped answering. Stopped listening. Stopped reaching.

He didn’t disappear.

That was the unsettling part.

He was still there—faint, like warmth just out of reach.

But you chose your life over a voice in your head.

And eventually, it got easier not to notice.

Until one night, out of idle curiosity, you looked up his name.

⸻

Apollo.

Not a voice.

A god.

You read the myths in the glow of your phone.

God of the sun. Of music. Of prophecy.

Light—and truth, sharp enough to cut.

And something about it felt…

Familiar.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

But that night, for the first time in years—

You almost said his name again.

You didn’t.

Until now.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit still, fingers curled slightly, heart beating just a little too fast.

It’s ridiculous.

And yet—

“…Apollo?”

Silence.

Long enough for doubt to settle in.

Of course nothing—

“…You took your time.”

The voice is softer than you remember.

But it’s him.

It’s always been him.

Relief hits first.

Then something sharper.

“…You’re still here,” you murmur.

“I never left.”

That shouldn’t make your chest tighten.

But it does.