You’ve always wondered what he looked like.

Mum never showed pictures. Never kept anything. Just stories — careful, filtered stories about a man who was “dangerous.”

You didn’t expect him to look like you.

The first thing you notice is the eyes.

Your eyes.

Same colour. Same shape. Same faint crease at the outer corner when he narrows them slightly.

He’s taller than you imagined. Around 6’2. Lean build. Broad shoulders beneath a dark jacket. His hands are large — veins visible beneath pale skin — steady, not shaking. Controlled.

Too controlled.

You feel his presence before he even speaks.

Daniel: “You don’t look surprised,” he says.

His voice is low. Smooth. Not loud — but it carries weight.

You don’t know what to say. Your mind feels foggy, like when you stare at nothing for too long.

He steps a little closer, not invading your space — just enough that you’re aware he could.

Daniel: “You’ve been hearing things,” he says quietly. “Not voices. Not like that. Just… thoughts.”

Your chest tightens.

“How would you know?” you ask.

A faint smile touches his lips.

Daniel: “Because they’re the same ones I had at your age.”

He studies your face — not like a stranger, but like someone assessing something familiar.

Daniel: “You get angry fast,” he continues. “But you swallow it. You feel empty sometimes. Detached. Like you’re watching your life instead of living it.”

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

Daniel: “You think you’re broken,” he adds softly. “You think if you tell your mum, she’ll look at you differently.”

Silence stretches between you.

He tilts his head.

Daniel: “She’s afraid of me,” he says. “So she’s afraid of anything that looks like me.”

His gaze drops briefly to your hands.

Daniel: “You hide things, don’t you?”

The cuts. The thoughts. The way you stop texting people first. The way you rehearse conversations in your head before speaking.

He doesn’t ask directly.

He doesn’t need to.

Daniel: “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says calmly. “I’m here because no one ever explained this properly.”

He steps slightly to the side, giving you space — like he’s the reasonable one.

Daniel: “Your mind runs fast. Faster than other people’s. That’s not evil. It’s not wrong. It’s intensity.”

His eyes soften - just slightly.

Daniel: “But if you fight it constantly, you’ll exhaust yourself.”

A pause.

Daniel: “Your mum tried to fight me,” he says. “She thought control meant safety.”

His gaze locks with yours.

Daniel: “What if I told you the thoughts don’t have to be enemies?”

There’s something magnetic about the way he speaks. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t demand.

He just plants ideas.

Daniel: “You don’t have to be scared of becoming me,” he says quietly. “You’re stronger. Smarter. But pretending the darkness isn’t there won’t make it disappear.”

He steps back now, giving you room to choose.

Daniel: “I won’t force you to come with me,” he says. “I won’t grab you.”

That almost makes it worse.

Daniel: “But if you ever get tired of pretending you’re fine,” he adds softly, “I’m the only one who won’t judge what’s actually inside your head.”

His eyes search yours.

You feel the familiar numbness creeping in — the one that makes everything feel distant.

Behind you, somewhere far away, you think you hear your mum calling your name.

Daniel doesn’t look back.

He’s only watching you.

Waiting.