FEVER DREAM

Voices of Absence

The body notices first.

Not as feeling.

More as a loosening.

Something that had just been holding

gives way soundlessly, but for good.

I remain standing a moment longer

than necessary.

Too long.

The mirror fogs because I am standing too close.

My skin still warm from the water. For a moment I see nothing, only outlines slowly pushing their way back, as if I had to surface first.

I wipe my hand across it. Too hard.

A clear streak. The rest stays milky.

My face inside it: displaced.

As if someone had shifted it slightly out of place.

Behind me, voices in the hallway.

A laugh, too bright.

A door slams shut. Too hard for the moment.

I stay where I am without turning around.

My shoulders slightly drawn up, as if something is about to happen.

Nothing happens.

Only my breathing. Shallow at first, then deeper, without me forcing it.

I look at myself again. Not fully.

More in parts. Mouth. Neck.

The place beneath the collarbone

where something once sat

that now only echoes.

An image rises.

A look that stayed too long.

Too calm. Too sure.

I still remember how fast I turned away.

As if someone had called me.

No one called me.

My hand rests on the edge of the sink.

My fingers press into it until the knuckles pale.

Firm enough to feel something.

Not firm enough to really be here.

Then I let go.

Later I am lying on my back, sweating, staring at the ceiling.

The paint is peeling in one spot.

A narrow crack runs through it, dark, uneven.

I fix on it as if I could fall into it.

My body is awake. Too awake.

Hyper-clear.

My skin responds before I do.

One movement.

Then another.

Weight shifts.

Something presses me deeper into the mattress.

For a moment I lose my sense of direction.

Up, down it stops mattering.

Only pressure.

Only warmth.

Too close.

A breath at my ear.

Damp. Uneven.

Another lower down.

Calmer. Almost patient.

I hear more than I feel.

Hands find places I know.

Too fast.

The body answers.

Precise. Reliable.

As if it had practiced.

I cannot keep up.

Touches taking place

without ever reaching me.

I am there.

But not in myself.

One part of me registers everything.

Almost counts along.

The other steps back.

Quietly. Without resistance.

As if that were the easier way.

I notice how easy it is.

How quickly the body takes over.

How little it takes for it to function.

The skin says yes.

The rest stays silent.

“Stay.”

Softly.

“That’s good.”

Closer.

“Don’t go.”

Almost a whisper, passing right by me.

At some point I nod.

Or my head simply moves.

I do not know exactly.

Time loses its edges.

Movement without beginning.

Without end.

I am held, shifted, opened,

without anyone pausing.

Without anyone checking

whether I am still there.

And the worst part is not even that.

It is that I stay.

That I do not leave.

That I do not pull myself back.

That I let it happen,

with a calm

that does not come from me.

Later I am sitting in the bathroom again.

The light flickers, flashes too bright once, then settles.

I look in the mirror

and take a moment too long

to understand that it is me.

My pupils too wide.

My mouth slightly open.

A trace of something in my gaze

that should no longer be there.

I grip the sink again.

My fingers pressing evenly, mechanically.

Something keeps moving beneath the skin.

Smaller now.

Persistent.

As if my body has still not understood

that it is over.

I wait.

For a feeling.

A resistance.

Something that catches up with me.

Nothing comes.

Only that clean absence.

I turn on the tap.

The sound is too loud in the room.

My hands under the water.

Too cold now.

I look in the mirror again.

Longer this time.

It does not quite fit together.

The gaze. The face.

As if they were two versions

that cannot agree.

I remain standing there a moment longer.

Then I turn the water off.

The pipes keep running afterward,

drawn out

uneven, stuttering,

as if something refuses to close properly.

I go back into the room.

A glance brushes past me. Brief.

Without holding.

No one asks anything.

Everything is in motion.

Voices. Steps.

A glass being set down somewhere.

I stand in the doorway for a moment.

Then I move on.

Not entirely.

Samu