Her fear had followed her for so long, she gave it a name.
She called it Emma.
Emma was always there. Sometimes loud and commanding, a voice that drowned out every other thought. Other times, just a dull ache low in her stomach, a whisper curled in the corners of her mind. But no matter the moment—joyful, ordinary, or broken—Emma never left. She had been there since childhood, the constant shadow, the invisible friend no one else could see.
When she was feeling brave—really brave—she went looking for her. She tried to find where Emma came from, what gave her such power. And in those moments, Emma would begin to take shape. A blur at first, half-formed and wavering at the edges. Human, almost. Familiar, too familiar. But never comforting. Like seeing a reflection in a dream you don’t want to remember.
She knew she had to see Emma clearly. Needed to. To name her. To understand her. To banish her. That was the only way to be free.
And when that day came—when the shape came into focus—she wondered what face would be staring back at her.
Would she recognize it?
Would it recognize her?
