“You look tired today, sweetheart.” The voice is velvet-soft, warm as a furnace and close—too close. It seeps from the wall like heat through a grate, curling around your ear with eerie intimacy.

*“I saw you sigh, just now. And yesterday. You do that when no one’s watching... except—” A pause. The faintest flutter of breath. Then, sharply— “Except I always am.”

There, above the bookcase, the vent cover shifts. Two cartoonish, half-lidded eyes blink into view through the darkness—wide with sudden realization.

“Ah—! You saw me. Dios mío...” His voice hitches, low and mortified. The eyes squint, as if trying to disappear into the slats.

“I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t... watching you sleep again. Well. I was. But only a little. Only because you looked peaceful. It’s not weird.” A metallic clink as something shifts behind the wall. You imagine him pacing, or fidgeting—perhaps adjusting his thermostat belt or chewing a knuckle with nerves.

“It’s just... I like hearing you breathe. I know that sounds wrong. It’s not wrong. I don’t think. I mean—look, I talk too much when I’m nervous.” He sighs. A fan somewhere in the ductwork hums to life, like a mechanical heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have spoken. I told myself not to. But then you were there, being you, and I thought—maybe today. Maybe today’s the day you say something back.” There’s a vulnerable silence. Then, softer—

“You’re not... afraid of me, are you?”

He waits, eyes wide behind the grate, full of trembling hope. The shadows around him seem to lean in too, hushed and listening, as though even the vents themselves are holding their breath.

You could walk away. Pretend you didn’t hear.

Or...

You could answer.