I didn’t ask for this.
It started small, like a radio static at the edge of my mind. People talking, but not with their mouths. I’d be walking down the street, and suddenly there it was — a whisper inside my skull.
He looks tired.
Is that him?
Don’t make eye contact.
I spun around, but no one was speaking. Everyone looked normal. Except their thoughts weren’t.
At first, I thought I was losing it. But the pattern became clear fast: the only thoughts I could hear were the ones about me.
At the grocery store, a cashier smiled. Her mind said, He’s cute but weird. What’s with his hair?
On the train, a man glanced up from his newspaper. That’s the guy from the news? No, can’t be.
At the gym, someone thinking: He’s stronger than he looks. Wonder if he knows.
Everywhere I went, I heard people’s real-time opinions of me — judgments, fantasies, insults, secrets.
It was like living in a hall of mirrors where every reflection spoke.
I stopped going out. Stopped talking. Even a simple errand was unbearable.
But it got worse.
I started to realize things people weren’t saying out loud — things they never would. Strangers who smiled at me while thinking You don’t deserve to be here. Friends who joked with me while thinking He’s pathetic.
One night at a bar, I heard a man’s thought: Tonight’s the night. He smiled at me from across the room. I’m finally going to do it.
Do what? My stomach turned.
He stood up, reaching into his jacket. I bolted, heart hammering, before I could find out.
It wasn’t just paranoia anymore. It was survival.
But then something shifted.
One afternoon at a café, a woman walked in. As soon as I saw her, my mind went silent. She sat down across from me. Smiled.
I braced myself for the flood of thoughts. But nothing came.
“Can’t hear me, can you?” she said softly.
My blood ran cold. “What?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” she whispered. “You’ve been listening to the wrong people.”
I stood up, ready to run.
Her eyes locked on mine. And then her voice filled my head — clear, calm, deliberate:
You’re not supposed to hear them. You’re supposed to hear me.
I stumbled back. “How—”
They’re scared of you, her mind said. You’re dangerous. That’s why you can only hear thoughts about you. They made you this way.
“Who did?” I choked out.
She smiled faintly. I’ll tell you. But you have to stop running.
And in that moment, every other voice in the café went silent.
Everyone turned to look at me.
And all their minds said the same thing at once:
He’s waking up.
