Echo Chamber

I know they can hear me.

Not in the usual way. Not through my voice or the way my mouth moves. They hear everything. My thoughts spill from my head like radio waves, transmitted to a secret room where they sit.

In the dark.

Watching.

Judging.

Plotting.

I’ve tried to control it. tried to think nothing. But how do you think nothing? The harder I try, the louder the noise echoing in my skull becomes. It swirls, bounces against the walls of my mind, trapped like birds in a cage. I can feel them, out there, dissecting each thought, each memory, turning them over under cold, clinical lights.

My girlfriend – God, my girlfriend.

She’s in on it.

A spy. A plan. I don’t know when she turned, but I hear the silence in our phone calls, the spaces between her words. That’s when she’s reporting back. Lining up her next move. If she can just get me alone – if she can get me comfortable – that’s when they’ll take me.

I stopped sleeping. Too risky.

 I can’t be unconscious. Not when they’re watching. Not when the walls are listening.

The fear is thick, suffocating. I start leaving home less and less, but even here, in this rotting little box of safety… I feel them. I tear apart the vents looking for cameras. Check the backs of picture frames. Even smashing my phone against the floor one night, convinced it’s transmitting every stray thought directly into their little control room.

Then the call comes.

Her name flashes across the screen.

My stomach knots.

My pulse thunders.

I pick up, but don’t speak.

Silence.

A long, breathless pause.

She’s listening. Calculating. Planning.

I hang up.

My head is a beehive of static. Thoughts swarming, buzzing. I pace the room. I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone.

I try to shut my mind down, drown out the noise. I press my hands over my ears, even though it won’t help.

They’re inside. They’re under my skin.

Someone knocks on my door.

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.

They found me.

I grab a knife from the kitchen. My fingers are slick with sweat.

Another knock.

Louder.

I know what happens if I let them in. I’ll be dragged to the interrogation room. A white place with no doors. No exits. Just voices. So many voices. Hands pressed down, pinning me, slicing me open to extract the secrets I don’t even know I have.

The door handle turns.

I back up against the wall. My mind is screaming.

Then…

Her voice.

“Sweetie?”

It’s her.

No. No, it sounds like her. But she’s one of them.

“Please,” she begs. “You haven’t answered your phone. I’m worried.”

Worried. Worried.  Like she isn’t the one who’s been leading them straight to me. like she doesn’t disappear into silence mid-call, pressing some hidden button to alert them to my every move.

I grip the knife. “Go away.”

“I just want to talk.” Her voice cracks. Trembling.

It’s an act.

The walls feel like they’re shrinking. My pulse pounds in my ears.

A thought, slithered in sideways, cutting through the

What if I’m wrong?

The thought stutters, uncertain.

What if it’s just my brain? What if there’s no secret room? No transmissions? No hidden cameras?

What if she really is just my girlfriend?

My grip on the knife falters.

She knocks again, softer this time.

“I love you,” she pleads. “Please.”

The paranoia fights back. My brain claws for control. I shut my eyes. Try to see the truth.

There is no secret room. No panel of judges.

Just me.

Just my mind.

And the woman outside my door, waiting.

I let the knife slip from my fingers. It clatters against the floor, metal against tile.

I step forward. Unlock the door.

And let her in.