I rushed directly from the train station, but by the time I arrived at the hospital where Aaron was admitted, it was already three in the afternoon.

  When I saw Aaron in the hospital room, pale and frail, a strange feeling washed over me. It was a sense of disorientation, as if time had stripped away too much, leaving behind only emptiness. He was no longer the arrogant, high-spirited class leader we once knew. Instead, he was a hollow-eyed, thinning-haired man, drowning in the crisis of middle age.

  I stepped closer. He looked visibly emotional but still forced a smile—that’s what adults do. Most of the time, we don't have a choice.

  "How are you?" I asked, barely squeezing out the words.

  "Still alive," he muttered indifferently.

  For a brief moment, I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but the bandages around his wrist made me hesitate.

  "Don't do anything rash," I said, resorting to hollow reassurances. "No problem lasts forever."

  He merely smiled, saying nothing.

  What could have happened to break him like this? What kind of weight had crushed his will to the point of surrender? I couldn't imagine. So, I stayed beside him in silence, reminiscing about our school days. Eventually, as memories resurfaced, he managed a genuine smile for the first time.

  Visiting hours ended too soon.

  Just as I was about to leave, Aaron suddenly grabbed my hand. His grip was firm—almost desperate. "You'll come back tomorrow, right?"

  It wasn’t a question; it was a plea.

  I nodded. Only then did he slowly release his hold.

  Aaron had a deep-seated fear of being alone. Even though he seemed indifferent on the surface, I could tell he was desperate for company. His parents visited occasionally, but they mostly sighed in disappointment and left him to me. And in the days that followed, Aaron's behavior became increasingly unsettling.

  He wouldn't let me leave his sight. Every time visiting hours ended, he would cling to my hand, making me promise to return. Sometimes, he would even beg me to take him away from the hospital.

  But the most disturbing thing was the way he kept glancing toward the ceiling.

  His empty yet wary gaze lingered on the same spot above my head. More than once, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.

  This wasn't just someone who had given up on life. This was someone who was terrified—like a man on the run, hiding from something unseen.

  One night, in a moment of sheer madness, I agreed to his request. I don’t know what compelled me, but I wrapped him in my jacket, avoided the nurses' watchful eyes, and smuggled him out of the hospital.

  Just like the old days—when we used to sneak out of school, dodging teachers and scaling fences. Only this time, I was the one reaching out to pull him over the wall.

  As soon as we got into the car, regret started to creep in, but the rush of adrenaline was overwhelming. After all, once you grow up, you don’t get many chances to do something this reckless.

  We watched the hospital shrink in the rearview mirror. He let out a giddy, almost delirious laugh. I found myself laughing too, as if we had somehow reclaimed a piece of our youth.

  "I'll take you home," I said, but he shook his head.

  "No. Let me stay with you."

  I nodded. Then we talked about our school days, then about life after graduation. And eventually, inevitably, the conversation returned to his attempted suicide.

  "Why did you do it?" I finally asked.

  Aaron looked at me, hesitant. His eyes flickered with the urge to speak, but he held back. I knew that if I pressed him, he would eventually spill everything—but at the cost of reopening wounds he wasn’t ready to confront.

  So, I let it go.

  But just as I was about to change the subject, he spoke.

  "If I tell you, will you believe me?"

  It was a question I had heard many times before. Either people no longer trusted each other, or their stories were simply too outlandish to be believed. Maybe both.

  I nodded again.

  He sighed. Then, he began his story.

  Aaron was a businessman. A failed one.

  After his company went bankrupt, he was forced to sell his house and car, eventually moving back in with his parents. He had never married or had children—he believed that "a man should have a career before he builds a family." That had been his mantra. But to his parents, that was just an excuse.

  After moving back home, they constantly pressured him to find a stable job, get married, settle down. But Aaron knew that wasn’t the life he wanted.

  So, he locked himself in his room and stopped going outside.

  And that’s when it all began.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Aaron’s story

  What happens when a person locks themselves away in a confined space for too long?

  They become hypersensitive. They start to feel the air itself—sometimes it gently embraces them, other times it presses against their skin like an invisible weight, suffocating. It’s as if the entire world is compressed within the room, yet they have no control over it. A helpless sensitivity.

  Their hearing sharpens. Like a cat, every tiny noise jolts their nerves. The quieter the space, the louder it becomes—especially at night, when the silence is filled with an unbearable ringing, a shrill note in the mind that stretches on and on until consciousness finally surrenders.

  Their body grows heavy. It’s as if the soul, body, and consciousness have become separate entities. When they sit in a chair, their soul sinks to the floor while their mind lingers at the back of their skull. When they lie on the bed, their soul drifts to the ceiling, their mind hovering just above their nose. When they eat, their soul lurks under the table, their consciousness absorbed in their fingers. And when they are silent, their soul screams while their mind drowns in an intoxicated haze.

  Aaron had been in this state for a month, locked in his room without stepping outside once.

  At first, he thought it was just his imagination.

  The first time he heard it, every hair on his body stood on end.

  The sharp, rhythmic clack of high heels against concrete.

  Click… click… click…

  But who would be walking in high heels at this hour?

  His parents lived in an old residential compound built decades ago for factory workers. Most of the residents were elderly, the younger generations long gone. There was no reason for anyone to be pacing the halls at night in high heels.

  Aaron didn't turn on the lights. He didn't storm out to investigate. As long as he was still breathing, that was enough.

  But the sound returned. Night after night.

  He began to lose patience. The incessant clicking gnawed at his frayed nerves, invading his hyper-attuned senses. His body, soul, and consciousness—already fragmented—were being hammered into unity by those relentless steps.

  One night, he grabbed a broom and slammed it against the ceiling in retaliation.

  The clicking stopped.

  Aaron remained still, broom in hand, waiting.

  Then, behind him—

  Click.

  He spun around. Silence.

  And then, right in front of his eyes, a footprint materialized on the ceiling.

  Another click.

  Another footprint.

  Was there another world, perfectly inverted, mirroring this one? A parallel dimension, like something out of a film? Except this time, the "other world" had shrunk into the confines of this tiny room.

  When Aaron lay in bed—someone stood above him.

  When Aaron sat in his chair—someone on the ceiling tilted their head back to stare at him.

  When Aaron walked on the floor—someone pressed down, hard, on the other side of the ceiling.

  That was when he realized the footsteps weren't coming from upstairs. They were coming from inside his own room.

  Aaron froze.

  He could feel it now—someone was hanging upside down from the ceiling, their head turned toward him, watching his back.

  His hypersensitive hearing failed him. His eyes darted frantically from side to side, but his neck refused to move. He could even sense strands of hair brushing against his leg, drifting in the air like ghostly tendrils.

  His calves tingled with an unbearable numbness.

  Summoning every ounce of courage, Aaron turned around.

  Nothing.

  He didn’t sleep that night.

  By morning, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the gap in his curtains, casting a pale strip of light across the room.

  It was filled with footprints.

  Aaron screamed. His parents burst into the room, alarmed. But when they turned on the lights, all they saw was their son lying rigid in bed, eyes wide, shrieking at the ceiling.

  They looked up. The freshly painted white ceiling was utterly pristine, except for the dull glow of the overhead bulb.

  This happened multiple times.

  Then, one morning, Aaron used a razor blade from a cheap disposable shaver to slice his wrist.

  The first cut wasn’t enough, so he made a second.

  Then a third.

  Then a fourth…

  By the time they found him, his right hand was barely attached to his arm.

  I don’t know what to believe.

  Every time I see his bandaged wrist, it feels like an unspoken taboo—something best left unsaid, a bitter lump stuck in my throat. But when I catch him glancing up at the ceiling, his eyes betraying an all-consuming fear, I feel it seep into my own bones.

  "He locked himself up for too long. Just lost his mind, that’s all." His father had told me this on the day I brought Aaron home. There was exhaustion in his voice, deep as the lines on his face.

  I nodded. Not as a sign of agreement, nor as a denial. Just a way to move forward.

  In this story, no one can say for sure what truly happened. Not even the one who lived through it. Was it merely his heightened senses giving birth to hallucinations? Or had his isolation peeled away the veil, exposing things usually hidden in the dark corners of perception?

  There was no answer.

  I handed Aaron my address. "If you ever need to get away for a bit, come find me."

  He took it, staring blankly, saying nothing.

  As I watched him leave with his parents, I saw a boy from years past—the same boy who had been dragged home by his father after skipping class. He had known what was coming, the scolding, the punishment, yet he followed nonetheless.

  We had grown up, but none of us had become the people we once imagined we would be.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  I finally managed to book a flight this time. No more grueling hours on the train; in just two short hours, I would be back in my city.

  In the confined space of the airplane, I, too, felt the creeping edges of paranoia.

  The journey left me exhausted. Beneath my fatigue, there was something heavier, something that sat like a stone in my chest. As the plane descended through thick, polluted air, I felt like I had become part of it—dense, tainted, suffocating.

  Finally, I unlocked my front door.

  And the lights were on.

  "You’re back?" A voice came from behind me.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I turned to see my assistant standing there.

  Seeing my reaction, he hastily explained, "You called me before you left, remember? Told me the new draft was at your place, said I could grab the key from the flowerpot. I just came to pick it up. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon."

  The memory clicked. He was right—I had told him that.

  I let out a slow breath, picking up my bag and heading toward the living room. Feeling strangely self-conscious, I muttered, "Thanks."

  I collapsed onto the couch, the overhead light glaring down. Blinking against the brightness, I felt my exhaustion blur the edges of my vision. And then—

  A footprint.

  On my ceiling.

  I jolted upright.

  My assistant, still standing nearby, followed my gaze and chuckled. "Yeah, that is a footprint, uh?"

  I turned to stare at him. "You... see it too?"

  "Of course. That was me."

  I frowned. He lifted his leg, pointing to the sole of his shoe. "Big mosquito in your place. Huge one. Got me a few times—look!" He rolled up his sleeves and pants, showing red welts. "It landed on the ceiling, so I whacked it with my shoe. Missed, though. I was just about to wipe it off when you came in."

  I exhaled. He was holding a damp cloth. I hadn’t even noticed before.

  Standing on the coffee table, he wiped at the ceiling. Then, he pointed toward the side cabinet. "Oh, right. There was a notice stuck to your door, so I brought it in."

  I picked up the envelope but didn’t bother opening it. I just wanted him to finish and leave.

  Even as he put away the rag and apologized profusely, I barely registered his words.

  "Oh, and don’t forget to get some bug spray! That thing was massive."

  I nodded absentmindedly, closing the door behind him.

  That night, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or trapped in a waking nightmare.

  When I finally woke, my shirt was drenched in cold sweat.