The Door in My Head

“Are you there, God? It’s me...”

I think I’m just tired. Nothing’s wrong, but it feels like something might be.

Not danger. Not noise. Just... presence. I keep thinking someone’s been here. Maybe I’m just not sleeping well.

Anyway, this isn’t a prayer. Just a way to keep track. I guess I just want to remember.

–Felix

He folded the page and tucked it behind the mirror, into the slit where the glass bowed from the wall. That was the system. Journal, fold, hide. A quiet confession. A way to keep the days in order.

The bathroom light buzzed overhead. Too harsh. He reached up, unscrewed the bulb until it dimmed. The mirror reflection softened with it.

The toothbrush was damp.

Felix picked it up, turning it slowly in his fingers. Cold. Used. But his mouth still felt dry. His tongue skimmed over unbrushed teeth.

It sat in the cup facing outward. He always placed it inward.

Didn’t he?

He stared at it for a long time.

He used to cry over things like this. A missing sock. A cracked plate.

But after that night, he learned to hold still.

Not quiet. Not calm. Just... still.

The hallway light clicked on.

He didn’t remember switching it.

The apartment was too quiet. Like it had held its breath too long. The fan pushed stale air in slow, lazy circles.

He checked the window latch. Still locked.

Checked again.

Then again.

Tap, slide, tug, always three times.

The hallway always seemed longer at night. And the door, storage, supposedly, felt like it watched him. He hadn’t touched the handle in years.

He didn’t need to.

He didn’t want to.

Still, some nights, he found himself standing in front of it without remembering how he got there. Just looking. Listening. Like maybe it had something to say.

But lately the air around it had felt warmer. Thicker. Like someone had just stepped away from it.

He turned off the hallway light. Stepped back into the kitchen. The mug on the counter was still warm.

The tea tasted off. Lemongrass. Not his usual blend.

He checked the label on the wrapper.

Then checked the trash.

Two used bags.

He only remembered making one.

The shirt was folded wrong.

The shirt poked from the laundry basket. Pale blue, buttoned to the second collar notch, not his.

Same brand. His size. But not his scent. A lemon note lingered. Not citrus. Cleaner. Or cologne.

He didn’t remember wearing it. Or buying it. And the sleeves were rolled the way he used to in college, back when that mattered. He hadn't folded a cuff like that in years.

He checked the hamper. No socks. But he never forgets socks. He writes them on the whiteboard every week: WASH SOCKS, F. That’s how he knows he didn’t.

He picked up the shirt with two fingers, like it might sting.

It didn’t.

Still, he stuffed it in a grocery bag, tied it shut, and put it in the hall closet behind the vacuum. It wasn’t his. He didn’t want to see it again.

Are you there, God? It’s me again.

Locked the windows. Double-checked the door.

If I find the kettle warm again, I’ll know it wasn’t me.

This isn’t paranoia. This is pattern recognition.

Just writing it down to track things. So I don’t forget what’s real.

–Felix

The kettle was warm again.

He lifted it by the handle, held it close to his face. No steam. But warm like it had been recently used.

He hadn’t made tea today. Not yet.

He touched the burner. Cold.

He wrote that down too.

He didn’t remember walking this close to the door. The hall felt shorter than it should have been. Like it had moved closer in the night.

The hallway felt warmer than usual. The kind of warmth you noticed after someone else had just left the room. He stopped at the end, not facing the door but near enough to feel it in the air.

The handle was turned slightly left. He always leaves it center.

He adjusted it. Straightened it. That would be something else. Too much.

His hand hovered near the knob. Just to check. That’s all it would be.

But something in his chest tightened, and he pulled back before his fingers touched it.

He returned to the bathroom.

The toothbrush now faced inward.

He froze, stared into the mirror above the sink. His reflection looked back like it always did. Same jawline. Same blink speed. Same scar on his brow from when he was seven.

Still, he turned the toothbrush outward again, slowly, as if doing so confirmed something.

The hallway light clicked off behind him.

He didn’t turn around.

The clock read 3:17 when he blinked. Then 2:02. Then 4:10.

Felix rubbed his eyes and looked again. The screen was blank. Just the faint glow of standby blue. He tapped it. Nothing changed. He checked his phone. It was off.

He hadn’t turned it off.

The air in the bedroom was too still. Like the fan had stopped without a sound.

He walked to the wall switch, flicked it. The light came on, but the fan didn’t.

He returned to the desk. The journal was open.

He hadn’t left it that way.

One page was creased down the middle, cleanly. Folded and unfolded. Someone had handled it with care. Too much care.

He read the line written in tight script near the bottom margin.

You were safe.

He didn’t remember writing that.

But the ink matched. The pen was still uncapped on the desk.

Maybe he’d written it in his sleep. Or maybe it was from earlier. Or maybe…

He stopped that thought and crossed to the mirror.

Nothing unusual.

He blinked.

Still nothing.

But something in the way the mirror seemed to lag unsettled him. Like it blinked a half-second late.

He returned to the journal and wrote.

Are you there, God?

I woke up and the clock was wrong. 3:17. Then 2:02. Then 4:10.

There was writing in the back of this notebook. Just one line:

“You were safe.”

I didn’t write that.

Did I?

Maybe I did it in my sleep.

–Felix

(Small scribble in the margin, bold and rushed: “That was me. –L”)

(Upper corner, printed neat and even: “He’s forgetting again. Use more dates. Be specific.” –E)

Who the hell are L and E?

He scanned the kitchen, searching for something that still made sense. The mug was clean. Dry. But he hadn’t done dishes yet.

But the dish rack was half full. The water had dried. It hadn’t been recent.

He lifted the plate. His handwriting on a sticky note beneath it read: BUY TEA.

He picked it up. Looked around.

He already had tea. Plenty.

He opened the cabinet.

One box was open. The rest were unopened. Perfectly stacked.

Hadn’t he already opened one yesterday?

He turned the note over. Something scribbled on the back in blocky black ink:

Don't forget again.

He dropped it, fast, like it burned.

It came from behind the door.

Low at first. Like someone trying not to be heard.

Felix froze halfway down the hall, socked feet on cold floor. He held his breath, listening.

The laugh rose again. Not loud. Just... full. Like it came from someone who already knew the punchline.

He backed up, slow and careful, until the door was no longer in view. Then turned and moved quickly to the kitchen. Locked the back door. Checked the windows.

Nothing.

The hallway pulled at his focus, silent and still. His throat tightened. The air pressed in around him. Like someone had just sighed and left.

He hadn’t opened that door in years.

It was just storage. It had always been just storage.

It laughed. Behind the door. I heard it.

Not loud. Not high. Just… full. Like it already knew.

I froze. And then I ran.

But when I came back, this was already written.

Not by me.

Not in my hand.

Not in my voice.

(A list follows, slanted, precise, unfamiliar):

1. Door: locked.

2. Task: completed.

3. Response: laughter.

(Possible cognitive rebound?)

–E

(Underlined below in jagged pen:)

It’s working. Just trust me this time.

–L

I want to tear the page out.

I want to burn this whole notebook.

But then what? I wouldn’t remember.

(Vertical, cramped in the margin, barely legible):

“Don’t read this aloud.” –E

He didn’t remember writing that list. But it was tucked inside like it had always been there. Like someone knew where it should go.

His hands shook as he closed the notebook. He didn’t tear the page out this time. He didn’t want to touch it again.

He checked every drawer. Every window. The oven. The cabinets. He opened the fridge and stared inside like something might be hiding between the milk and the mustard.

Nothing was out of place.

Except the hallway light. On again. Always on again, when he was certain he’d turned it off.

He stepped toward it, slow.

The door at the end remained shut, handle centered.

He watched it for a long time.

It did not move. Did not creak. Did not breathe.

But the air around it was warm.

He spoke aloud, just once, to see if the apartment would answer.

“Is someone there?”

Silence.

But not the normal kind. Not empty.

It was like the silence chose not to reply.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the storefront window.

But it wasn’t him. Not quite.

The reflection stood still even after Felix stepped away. Same coat. Same way of standing, hands in pockets, head slightly turned. But the shoes were wrong. Polished. Intentional. Not like anything he owned.

For a moment, he thought it nodded.

Then the reflection moved with him again, perfectly in sync.

He kept walking. Faster. The city felt colder in that sudden, thin way that air sometimes shifts before a storm.

By the time he got home, the hallway light was already on.

Are you really there, God?

I saw myself. I think.

Not in a dream. Not fully real either.

The way light bends when you remember something.

Same coat. Wrong shoes.

He looked like he knew something I didn’t.

I am me. I am me. I am me. I am me. I am m…

The pen dug into the page. Like whoever wrote it didn’t want to let go.

–(Signed) Felix

(Signed again): –L

(Followed by a soft line in script): “We are…”

The door was open a crack.

He didn’t have the key. The landlord never gave it to him. Said it was storage. Said it was never used.

He knew he hadn’t touched it. That kind of knowing lived behind the ribs, where fear makes a home.

He pressed it shut slowly. His fingers rested against the wood.

Too warm. Not like sun-warmed metal. Like breath. Like skin.

He stayed there. Listening.

The apartment held its breath again.

He turned to the mirror. His reflection stared back, unblinking. He didn’t know how long he watched it.

The eyes looked steady. Too steady. Not like his.

He stepped back.

A cup sat on the counter. His. But he hadn’t left it there.

Steam still curled from it. Lavender mint. A type he’d never bought. The tea bag tag read “Try this” in unfamiliar handwriting.

The journal was already open.

A page was missing.

He hadn’t written yet.

The pen was uncapped. Resting where his hand would usually leave it.

Beside it sat a sticky note, pressed lightly to the corner of the desk.

We’re almost ready.

A knock, from the hallway. Soft. Three times. Measured. Like a memory tapping back.

Not frantic. Not even firm. Just enough to feel familiar.

He held still. Breath caught halfway.

The knock came again.

From behind the locked door.

The door was ajar again.

This time, the air around it didn’t just feel warm. It moved. It exhaled, faint but steady, like the room was breathing. Felix stood at the threshold with the journal clutched tight in one hand.

He didn’t remember picking it up.

He didn’t remember walking down the hall.

But here he was.

The light above him flickered once, then steadied. The hallway felt too narrow now, like the walls had leaned in just enough to make him doubt his posture.

He reached for the knob.

It was warm. Not like metal warmed by the sun, but like skin.

He turned it.

The hinges didn’t creak. The door didn’t resist. It opened without sound, swinging inward to reveal… a room.

Just a room.

Same floorboards. Same off-white paint. A window on the far wall with the curtain drawn. A lamp in the corner, already lit.

And a desk.

His desk.

Not similar. Not close.

His.

The one from his old place before this apartment. Same scratch across the top drawer. Same wobbly leg. Same faint pen mark near the lamp base where he used to rest his hand when thinking.

A notebook sat in the center. Open.

Felix stepped inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the air changed. The hallway behind him quieted too quickly. Like a sound had been cut. The silence here was heavier. Intentional.

He walked to the desk. Picked up the notebook.

The page wasn’t blank.

The handwriting looked like his, but cleaner. More deliberate.

“You made it. That means we’re close.”

He turned the page.

Another entry.

“Do you remember the door? You locked it. But you always leave keys behind.”

He flipped further. More pages. More entries. Some in cursive. Some in neat print. Some angry, jagged. One signed just “L.” Another, “Ezra.” One had no name at all.

And then…

His own name, at the top of a page he didn’t remember writing.

In the margin, a faded question, nearly erased:

Are you there, God? We’re still here.

It wasn’t signed. But he knew it was Ezra.

Felix. We’ve been waiting.

His legs gave out slowly, like something had been cut beneath the knees. He sat in the chair that was already pulled out.

The lamp flickered.

The window curtain shifted.

And somewhere in the back of the room, though he hadn’t seen it when he came in, another mirror stood.

It was covered by a cloth.

But the shape beneath was unmistakable.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just wrote.

Are you still there, God?

I don’t think you are.

But I need someone to see this.

Even if it’s just one of them.

Even if it’s just me.

–Felix

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he opens his eyes, the journal is open, and the page is full.

Three voices.

His.

And two others.

At first, he can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Some lines overlap. Some are crossed out, as if argued over. One section is dated years ago.

A note in the corner reads: We tried to keep you safe. You weren’t ready to remember.

Felix reads on.

The words aren't explanations. They’re memories.

The hallway. The locked door. The night it wouldn’t stay closed.

He was twelve.

He had hidden in the closet with a towel over his head because the shouting wouldn’t stop. Because the crash of something breaking had sounded too close. Because someone he loved had said his name in a voice that didn’t match their face.

And that’s when Leo first whispered: I’ll take care of this part.

Then later, when it was quiet again, Ezra wrote it down so they wouldn’t forget.

That was the first journal.

That was the real beginning.

He sets the journal aside. Walks to the mirror.

Pulls the cloth down.

His reflection is waiting.

But it shifts, slightly.

Not two faces.

One face, shared.

He sees Leo in the way the jaw is set. A quiet strength, always ready to defend.

He sees Ezra in the way the eyes hold still. Careful. Watchful. Never letting the memories slip.

And in the center, finally, he sees himself.

Not broken. Not lost. Just... returned.

He places a hand against the mirror.

The glass is warm.

“I remember now,” he says.

The memory hits, sudden, physical.

His hand scribbling across paper, fast, furious. Writing in the dark.

Not his words, but something guiding him from within.

Leo’s voice in motion. Ezra’s steadiness in script.

The memory fades.

He’s still here. Still in front of the mirror.

No answer. Just the feeling of someone listening.

So he speaks again.

“Leo,” he says. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

The jaw softens. The reflection shifts.

“Ezra,” he says, voice shaking. “Thank you for remembering when I couldn’t.”

The eyes close, once. A nod, maybe.

“I thought I was alone,” he whispers.

He doesn’t need a reply.

He already knows he wasn’t.

Are you still there, God?

Maybe it was always them.

Maybe you sent them.

Maybe they just were.

Either way… I’m still here.

–Felix

–Leo

–Ezra