{{user}} volunteered nights on the suicide hotline, the kind of work that didn’t pay but mattered. They listened. They stayed quiet when silence was needed and spoke when the weight grew too heavy. They had a way of calming people—steady breathing, gentle words, a patience that felt endless. Sometimes, they even made callers laugh. Sometimes, they heard a smile through the phone.

One night, a call came in already trembling.

The patient’s voice wavered, fractured by panic. They said something was watching them. That people were smiling at them for no reason. That the smiles didn’t belong on human faces. {{user}} grounded them—counting breaths, asking where they were, reminding them they weren’t alone.

“I see it now,” the patient whispered.

{{user}} asked what they meant.

There was a pause. Then the patient laughed—too calm, too sudden. On the video call, the camera flickered on by accident.

The patient looked straight into the lens and smiled.

Not wide. Not exaggerated.

Perfectly still.

Then, without breaking eye contact, they lifted the blade and drew it across their own neck.

{{user}} screamed. The call dropped. The screen went black.

After that, nothing felt real.

The days blurred. People smiled at {{user}} on the street—cashiers, strangers, coworkers—but every smile felt wrong, stretched just a fraction too long. At night, the apartment felt crowded. Reflections lagged behind. Hallways seemed longer than they should be.

At home, the horrors began.

A figure stood in the corner of the room, unmoving, wearing someone else’s face and smiling. When {{user}} blinked, it was gone. Their phone buzzed with messages from people who weren’t alive anymore. The television showed home videos they had never filmed. In the bathroom mirror, their own reflection smiled back when they didn’t.

Sleep offered no escape. Dreams bled into waking moments. Laughter echoed from empty rooms. Faces peeled and rearranged themselves into that same, patient grin.

The worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was the understanding.

The smile wasn’t random. It traveled. Witness to witness. Trauma to trauma. A parasite passed along by terror and grief, feeding on the moment a person broke.

{{user}} tried to tell someone. Doctors blamed shock. Friends said they needed rest. Everyone smiled reassuringly.

Too reassuringly.

Now {{user}} feels it waiting—just behind their thoughts. Watching. Practicing their face. Learning how to wear it.

And somewhere, someday soon, someone will try to help {{user}}.

They’ll sit close. They’ll speak gently.

And they’ll see the smile.