Page 3 of The Edge Of Us

I go through my morning skincare routine, chatting about my plans for the day. My hands move with practiced ease, blending my foundation, dabbing on blush, and carefully lining my lips. Everything feels routine, effortless.

Until it doesn't.

As I pick up my mascara, something shifts. The air in the room suddenly feels heavier, the light dimmer. A chill runs down my spine, and a strange, creeping exhaustion settles over me. My vision blurs slightly, my hands trembling as I try to steady myself.

Then I hear it.

A whisper. Soft, but unmistakable.

I freeze, my grip on the mascara tightening. The voice is familiar, yet foreign. Distant, yet unbearably close. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, my pulse quickening. My own eyes stare back at me, wide and slightly unfocused.

I try to shake it off, forcing a small laugh. "Wow, I think I need more sleep," I mumble, brushing off my the unease. I reach to turn off the recording, but my fingers hesitate over the screen.

Another whisper. Louder this time.

"Stop."

The word sends a shiver through me. I whip around, my heart hammering. The room is empty. Of course, it is.

I exhale shakily, pressing a hand to my forehead. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe it's nothing.

But deep down, I know better.

The whispers haven't come in months. Not since I started my new medication. But now they're back, creeping in like shadows at the edges of my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady my breathing. I just need to get up, move around, do something to ground myself. I stand and take a step toward the bathroom, but the moment my foot touches the floor, my body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.

The exhaustion slams into me all at once. My legs buckle, and I barely manage to catch myself against the vanity. My head spins, and the room warps around me, shifting like a distorted dream.

Then the voices return. Not whispers this time, but full-blown echoes, overlapping, suffocating.

"You're not good enough."

"Everyone knows you're a fraud."

"Allen doesn't love you anymore."

My breath comes in short gasps as I grip the edge of the vanity. The walls seem to close in, the once bright and airy room turning cold and suffocating.

I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking as I scroll to Allen's contact. The screen blurs before me, but I manage to press the call button. It rings twice before his voice comes through, sharp with concern.

"Corine?"

I try to speak, but my throat feels tight. "I-I need you to come home." My voice is barely a whisper. "Please."

There's no hesitation. "I'm on my way. Stay where you are."

I let the phone slip from my hand as I sink to the floor, curling into myself. My heart pounds in my chest, the voices relentless. The minutes stretch, each second dragging painfully.

Then, finally, I hear the front door open. Footsteps rush toward me, and within moments, Allen is kneeling beside me, his arms wrapping around me.

"I'm here, baby," he murmurs, his voice steady, soothing. "You're okay. I've got you."

I clutch onto him, my fingers digging into his shirt. The voices don't stop immediately, but they begin to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

He strokes my hair, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Talk to me."

I swallow hard. "They came back," I whisper.

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