Have you ever had this feeling?
Your phone isn't even in your pocket, but the outside of your thigh tingles, vibrating once, then again.
You reach in and feel nothing.
Everyone tells themselves the same thing: nerves, sitting too long, too much stress.
But have you ever wondered —
what if it wasn't an illusion at all?
Part 1
My name is Lin Yuan. I'm twenty-seven, working as a merchandiser at a foreign trade company in the south of the city. My days are just replying to emails, checking bills, and answering calls.
I stare at a screen for more than ten hours a day.
For people like me, a phone is like an extension of the body.
Without it, I feel like I'm missing a finger.
I have phantom vibration syndrome.
It sounds mysterious, but it's simple — you keep thinking your phone is buzzing, only to pull it out and see nothing.
Medically, it's called tactile hallucination. More than eighty percent of phone users experience it.
The higher your anxiety, the more often it happens.
Basically, your nerves are too tight, and muscle memory is tricking you.
I know. I know all of it.
So every time my pocket vibrates, I still check.
Not because I doubt it, but because I believe it too much — I'm scared of missing a client's message, a call from my boss, or a voice note from my girlfriend Xi Lin that I didn't reply to instantly.
These days, "seen but not replied" is worse than an insult.
It started on a Thursday afternoon.
I was unusually free that day. My phone was charging on my desk, and I was leaning back flipping through an old National Geographic.
Around three o'clock, the outside of my right thigh, inside my jeans pocket, began to vibrate.
Clear. Two short pulses, about 0.3 seconds apart — exactly like my WeChat notification vibration.
I reached in instinctively.
Nothing.
I froze, glanced down at my pocket.
Dark blue jeans, right front pocket. Empty.
I even pulled the pocket lining all the way out. Clean.
I frowned, tucked it back, and leaned again.
Must be an illusion.
I flipped a few more pages. It vibrated again.
Three times this time. Short-long-short.
Not WeChat. More like… a phone call?
No, calls vibrate continuously: buzz — buzz — buzz.
This was different. Tap, tap, tap, like someone knocking on a desk with their knuckle.
I checked again.
Still empty.
I stood up, patted my thigh, then my pocket.
Nothing.
I unplugged my phone, held it, and confirmed — screen dark, no missed calls, no messages, no notifications.
I plugged it back in and set it down.
Stood for about ten seconds.
It vibrated.
This time I swear my phone was right in front of me, screen up, completely still.
But my pocket — my right thigh — was definitely vibrating.
I thrust my hand in.
This time, I felt it.
Not a phone.
A faint, continuous tremor, like something pressed against my thigh, right against the denim lining, vibrating.
I pressed my palm over the fabric, trying to squeeze whatever "it" was through the cloth.
But as soon as my fingers closed, the vibration vanished.
Slipped away like an eel.
I stood by my desk, hand still in my pocket, looking ridiculous.
Xiao Zhou peeked over: "Yuan, you okay?"
I forced a smile. "Fine. Leg cramp."
Xiao Zhou "oh"ed and looked away.
I sat down and stared at my pocket for a long time.
A small wrinkled patch on the denim where I'd pressed.
Nothing else.
I told myself: posture.
The left armrest of my chair was crooked. I always leaned right, pressing on the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve, causing false vibrations.
I'd read about it online — meralgia paresthetica. Nothing new.
Right. Just nerves.
I adjusted my posture, moved the chair two centimeters left, and kept reading.
Nothing happened for the next forty minutes.
At four-thirty, I went to the pantry for water.
On the way back, my pocket vibrated again.
This time was different.
Not two, not three. A rapid series of short pulses, like someone tapping fast on a plastic box with a fingernail.
I stopped, hand in pocket.
Still nothing.
But the vibration didn't stop.
My hand rested in the empty pocket, palm against the fabric, clearly feeling the rhythmic tapping: tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap — like a code.
It lasted about seven or eight seconds, then stopped.
I stood in the hallway, hand in pocket, like an idiot for half a minute.
Then I made a decision: no overtime tonight. Go home early.
I must be too tired. My nerves are broken.
Part 2
That night I got home, threw my pants on the washing machine, and changed into lounge shorts.
Xi Lin was on the sofa watching a show, surprised to see me early: "Wow, did the sun rise from the west today?"
"Tired. Going to bed early."
I showered. When I came out, I picked up the jeans and checked them inside out.
Pockets clean, no holes, no foreign objects, not even a grain of sand.
I tossed them in the basket and lay down.
By the time Xi Lin turned off the TV and came in, I was almost asleep.
She slid next to me, pulled my arm over as a pillow.
"You're acting weird today," she said.
"Hmm?"
"Came home, dumped your pants, showered for forty minutes, didn't say a word."
"Nothing. Just tired."
She didn't push, buried her face in my shoulder, and her breathing steadied.
I closed my eyes, mind fading.
Half-asleep, the outside of my left thigh — inside the new lounge shorts pocket — vibrated once.
My eyes snapped open.
The shorts were fresh. Nothing in the pocket.
My phone was charging on the nightstand, screen down. I could hear the faint hum of the charger.
I waited ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.
Nothing again.
I took a deep breath and rolled over.
Nerves. Just nerves.
The lateral femoral cutaneous nerve runs from the waist to the knee. Changing pants didn't change the nerve path.
Pressure causes illusions.
I pulled the blanket up and closed my eyes.
The next morning, my phone rang while I brushed my teeth.
Message from Xi Lin: "Lunch together today?"
I replied "okay" and put my phone in my pocket — new khaki slacks, right front pocket.
Leaving, I paid attention to how it felt.
The phone pressed against my thigh, slight weight, gentle sway when walking.
Normal. That's how a phone feels.
At work, I set my phone on the desk, turned on my computer, answered emails.
Everything normal.
Nine-fifteen. Pocket vibrated.
I didn't check immediately.
First I looked at my phone — dark, no notifications.
Then my pocket — khaki fabric, right front, slightly bulging from my work ID.
I took out the ID and set it on the desk.
The pocket vibrated again.
I clearly felt it: coming from the bottom of the pocket, near the seam.
Nothing there now.
I reached in.
This time, I felt temperature.
Not my body heat.
Cooler, slightly cold, like touching a metal doorknob without gloves in winter.
That cold thing pressed against my thigh, vibrating.
As soon as my hand touched it, it shrank away.
Like a startled bug, darting deeper into the pocket.
I chased it with my fingertip, but the cold vanished quickly, sliding from the outside to the inside of my thigh… then gone.
I pulled my hand out, flipped the pocket lining.
Empty.
I took off my pants, shook them, checked all four pockets.
Nothing.
Xiao Zhou peeked again: "Yuan… what are you doing?"
"Looking for something."
"What?"
"…Keys."
"Aren't they on your desk?"
I looked down. Keys right next to the keyboard.
I put my pants back on, sat, and stared blankly for five minutes.
Then I opened the browser and typed:
feeling vibration in pocket but no phone
Results as expected: phantom vibration syndrome, tactile hallucination, nerve pressure, anxiety symptoms.
Everything told me it was my fault. My body tricking me.
I closed the page and worked.
A little past ten. Pocket vibrated again.
I didn't reach.
I pressed my hand on the outside, feeling the rhythm through fabric.
tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. Pause two seconds.
tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. Pause two seconds.
Repeating.
I counted each group.
First: two short, three short, one short.
Second same. Third same.
It repeated the same pattern.
I picked up my phone, opened a recorder, pressed it to my pocket, recorded thirty seconds.
Put in headphones, played it back.
Only static.
The vibration I felt wasn't recorded at all.
I took off the headphones and looked down.
Hand still on it.
Vibration continued.
I suddenly realized something: I changed pants.
Jeans yesterday, khakis today.
Right leg yesterday, right leg today.
Last night after changing to shorts, it was my left leg.
It wasn't in the pants.
It was on my leg.
Part 3
When that thought hit, cold sweat broke out all over my back.
Not the pants. Not the phone.
My leg — the skin on the outside of my right thigh — was vibrating.
By itself.
I pressed my palm over the skin.
Vibration continued, passing through my hand to my knuckles.
I felt it, but couldn't hold it.
Like trying to press down on your own heartbeat.
I let go, stood, walked to the bathroom.
Locked the door, pulled down my pants, looked in the mirror at my right thigh.
Nothing.
Skin normal color, no redness, no rash, no abnormality.
I touched it. Texture normal, temperature normal.
But as I touched, it vibrated again.
I felt it clearly: source under the skin.
Not muscle spasm. I knew the difference.
Spasms make whole muscles jump, visible under skin.
This was high-frequency, localized vibration, like a silent phone tucked under my skin.
I pulled up my pants, splashed cold water on my face, stared at myself for ten seconds.
Pale face, dark circles.
Twenty-seven, merchandiser, sixth-floor walk-up old neighborhood, orange cat named Tuanzi.
Girlfriend Xi Lin in admin, two years younger, together three years, planning marriage next year.
I'm ordinary.
This stuff isn't supposed to happen to me.
I went back, deleted the search, typed:
vibration under skin no pain no itch
Results: nerve tremors, benign fasciculation syndrome, calcium deficiency, somatic anxiety.
Scariest one: early Parkinson's. I read it, got more scared, closed it.
I decided to go to the hospital.
Took afternoon off, went to the city hospital's neurology department.
Waited two hours, saw a forty-something female doctor, Doctor Fang.
I explained everything.
When I said "feels like a phone vibrating," Doctor Fang raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She rolled up my pants, checked my thigh, tapped reflexes with a small hammer, asked:
"Numbness?"
"Pain?"
"Weakness?"
"Bowel or bladder issues?"
I said no to all.
She wrote a slip for electromyography.
EMG is uncomfortable.
Thin needles into thigh muscles, flex and relax, waves jumping on screen.
Waited half an hour for results.
Doctor Fang looked: "EMG normal. No nerve damage, no muscle disease."
"Then why the vibration?"
"Many causes for abnormal sensations: stress, anxiety, lack of sleep, too much caffeine."
She paused. "Stressed lately?"
"Not really."
"Sleep?"
"Okay."
"Coffee?"
"Two or three a day."
She nodded, prescribed mecobalamin for nerves, told me less coffee, early sleep, more exercise.
Come back in two weeks if no improvement.
I walked out, smoked at the gate.
Sunset glinted off car roofs. Sparrows lined power lines.
I looked at my right thigh. Nothing visible.
But I knew under the fabric, something waited.
Part 4
Three days. Nothing.
No vibration. No cold. No abnormality.
I thought Doctor Fang was right — just stress, messed-up nerves.
Took mecobalamin three times a day, replaced coffee with chrysanthemum tea, in bed by eleven.
Fourth day, I thought it was over.
That night, I scrolled on the sofa, Tuanzi purring on my lap.
Mid-scroll, outside my right thigh — through Tuanzi's warm body — vibration.
Soft, clear.
Three times. Pause. Three. Pause. Three.
I froze.
Tuanzi jumped, startled, meowed, ran to the bedroom.
I set my phone down, stared at my leg.
Vibration continued.
Three, pause, three, pause, three.
Steady, repetitive.
I suddenly thought of something: Morse code.
I only knew from movies — SOS is three short, three long, three short.
Three short?
No. Three short, pause, three short, pause, three short.
Three short = S. Repeated three times. S-S-S.
Not SOS. Three Ss.
I searched Morse code chart.
S = three short. O = three long. S = three short.
Mine was three short, pause, three short, pause, three short.
I searched "… / … / …".
Scrolled pages, found a radio hobby forum.
Poster said in non-standard Morse, three Ss in a row = simplified distress signal.
SOS needs long and short; if only short signals possible, use SSS.
Last line chilled me:
SSS is only used when the sender cannot make long signals.
Not because of equipment. Because the sender physically cannot.
In that case, SSS means: I am here but cannot speak. Please find me.
I locked my phone, sat still.
Warm living room light, photo of me and Xi Lin, cold chrysanthemum tea, city lights outside.
Everything normal. Same as yesterday.
But on my leg, something was sending signals.
I didn't sleep that night.
Sat in the living room with all lights on. Tuanzi came back, slept heavy on my lap.
One hand petting him, one on my thigh.
Vibration stopped at eleven.
Didn't come back.
Next morning, called in sick, went to another hospital — First People's, sports medicine.
Younger doctor, early thirties, Doctor Sun, round glasses, gentle.
I explained in full: when it started, when it vibrated, the rhythm.
Doctor Sun listened, silent, then asked something no one else had:
"When you feel it, have you ever thought it's responding to something?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does it only start when you move, think, or hear something?"
I thought.
No.
Random, no pattern, no relation to what I did.
"Ever tried talking to it?" Doctor Sun asked.
I froze. "Talking?"
"When it vibrates, do something — tap three times — see if it changes rhythm."
I stared three seconds.
He was serious. Not joking.
"You want me to experiment?"
"I want you to observe." He adjusted his glasses. "Medical concept: sensory fixation. When your brain fixates, it amplifies, interprets, gives meaning.
Record patterns. See if linked to your actions.
If yes — nerves.
If no…"
"If no?"
"I order deeper tests."
I nodded.
Leaving, I glanced back.
He was writing notes, glasses reflecting screen light.
Something about his words felt less like doctor to patient.
More like a warning.
Part 5
I started logging.
Notebook: date, time, duration, pattern.
Two full pages in three days.
Pattern emerged.
One: only at night.
Rare daytime, once or twice max.
After 8 PM, frequency spikes.
Densest 11 PM – 1 AM.
Two: fixed rhythm patterns.
Started SSS: three short, repeat three times.
Second night changed.
Four short, pause, four short, four short.
H-H-H.
H = four short.
Third night: five short.
Five short = number 5.
Repeated three times: 5-5-5.
It was changing.
Trying different signals.
Fourth night: nothing.
Waited 8 PM to 2 AM. Nothing.
I thought it was gone.
Relieved — maybe medicine worked, caffeine left, nerves healed themselves.
Fifth night, 11 PM sharp. It returned.
New rhythm.
Not repetition. Long sequence.
I sat on bed, right leg straight, palm on thigh, counted every pulse.
Short-long-short. Short-long-short. Short-long-short. Long-short-short-long. Short-short-long. Short-long-short. Long-short-long. Long-short-long. Short-short. Long-short-long. Short-short. Short-long-short. Short-long-short. Short-long-short.
Three full minutes, forty+ vibrations.
I tapped the rhythm into my phone notes.
Spent an hour translating.
Result:
R U T H E R E
I stared.
RUTHERE. No spaces.
I split: R U T H E R E. Nonsense.
Tried words: RUTH ERE. RUT HERE. No.
I said it aloud.
"Ruther e."
"Ruth ere."
"Ruth... here."
I sat up straight.
Ruth here.
I didn't know anyone named Ruth.
No Ruth in contacts, coworkers, friends, family.
Checked phone. Nothing.
WeChat. Nothing.
Even QQ, unused two years.
No Ruth.
I put down the phone, stared at ceiling.
Ruth is here.
Who said that? Who's Ruth? Where is "here"?
Inside my leg? Under my skin?
Tuanzi walked over, stepped on my calf, lay on my stomach, purring.
I petted his head. He closed his eyes.
"Tuanzi," I whispered. "Can you feel it?"
He yawned, buried his face in his paws.
I insomnia that night.
Not just scared — confused.
If signals, who sent them?
If my nerves joking, way too creative.
Nerves don't spell English words.
One thought I dared not think:
What if it wasn't nerves?
What if something really was inside me, speaking through vibration?
Part 6
Sixth day. I decided to reply.
Doctor Sun's words looped: "Ever tried talking to it?"
Strange then, but only way now.
If it sent signals, it could receive.
How?
First: speak.
11 PM, vibration started. I said to my thigh: "Who are you?"
Vibration continued, unchanged.
Second: tap my leg.
Vibration paused three seconds, resumed.
New rhythm.
Translated:
S A Y
Say.
It wanted me to speak.
My throat dried. I cleared it, said slowly:
"My name is Lin Yuan. Who are you?"
Vibration stopped.
Ten seconds.
Room so quiet I heard Tuanzi turn, cars below, my heartbeat.
Then it vibrated.
One long. Pause. One long. Pause. One long.
Three long. O. O. O.
O? Letter? Zero?
New sequence.
Translated:
O P E N
Open.
Open what?
I asked: "Open what?"
Vibration stopped.
Thirty seconds.
Then:
One short. E.
E? Error? Exit?
Or…
E is a single letter.
Then again.
E. E. E.
I understood.
It repeated my name.
I said Lin Yuan. It tried to reply.
Yuan.
No Chinese in Morse. Only letters.
Y-U-A-N. But it only sent E.
Not E. One.
It didn't know how to spell. Simplest confirmation:
I heard you. I heard you. I heard you.
I sat, back against headboard.
Legs straight, palm on thigh.
Vibration gone.
But faint echo remained.
Imagination, maybe.
I didn't know my expression.
Blank, probably.
One thought took over:
It wasn't random.
It was responding.
Not full fear.
More like… being watched.
Like a room you thought empty, someone in dark says: I've been here.
Part 7
Next week, I "spoke" to it every night.
Learned to log fast, translate with chart.
Slow at first, ten minutes per sequence.
Found a Morse app: tap rhythm, auto-convert.
Real-time conversation.
Simple at first.
It asked my name. I answered.
Asked where I was. I told city and neighborhood.
Asked age. I said.
Rhythm slow, cautious, like scared to frighten me.
Seventh night, I asked my real question:
"Who are you?"
Long vibration.
Over a minute, huge sequence.
App typed:
I D O N T K N O W W H A T I A M
I don't know what I am.
I gripped the phone tighter.
Stared long.
"Where are you from?"
Vibration.
I D O N T K N O W
I don't know.
My knee trembled. Voice shaky:
"Why are you on my leg?"
Long pause.
Two minutes.
Then:
I W A S A S L E E P
I W O K E U P H E R E
I was asleep. I woke up here.
My hands shook.
"Where… were you before?"
Vibration.
Fast:
D A R K
Dark.
I swallowed, pressed phone closer:
"Dark? What kind of dark?"
D A R K
W A R M
T I G H T
Dark. Warm. Tight.
My brain raced.
Three words together — what place?
Enclosed space.
Like a…
I dared not think.
"When did you wake up?"
T H A T D A Y
Y O U F E L T M E
The day you felt me.
First vibration. Thursday afternoon.
"You didn't know I existed before?"
N O
I D I D N T K N O W A N Y T H I N G
I W A S S L E E P
No. I knew nothing. I was asleep.
Deep breath.
"Are you scared?"
Vibration stopped.
Very long.
I almost gave up.
Lifted hand.
It vibrated.
Once.
E.
One dot. Shortest signal.
I understood.
Yes.
It was scared.
I stopped asking that night.
Removed hand, turned off light, lay down.
In dark, I felt it — not vibration, faint temperature shift.
Something curled quietly against my thigh.
I wasn't scared.
It was more scared than me.
Part 8
Things changed on the eighth day.
Night, ready to talk.
Vibration started, rhythm different.
No longer slow, tentative.
Fast, urgent, like gasping.
App opened, pressed to leg.
First line:
S O R R Y
Sorry.
"What's wrong? Why sorry?"
Vibration:
I C A N T S T O P I T
I can't stop it.
"Stop what?"
Long sequence.
Letters flashed:
T H E O T H E R
T H E O T H E R I S W A K I N G
The other. The other is waking.
My breath caught. Phone slipped.
Hand frozen.
"What other? Another what?"
Vibration chaotic, almost blurred.
I caught fragments:
I S H A R E
D O N T W A N T T O
I T H U R T S
I share. Don't want to. It hurts.
"Share what? Who's hurting you?"
Vibration stopped.
Five seconds.
Restarted.
Rhythm completely different — no clear pattern.
Wild, rough, random.
Like pounding a wall.
I felt pushing, not vibration.
Something under skin, pushing outward.
Whole thigh, large area.
Two or three seconds.
Gone.
Vibration ended.
All night, nothing.
Next night: returned.
New rhythm.
No conversation.
Repetitive, mechanical, monotone.
One loop.
Translated:
S T A Y O U T
Stay out.
I replied: "Stay out of where?"
No response.
Repeat:
S T A Y O U T
I asked: "Who are you? The other one?"
Rhythm changed:
S T A Y O U T O R I W I L L
Stay out or I will.
"Or you will what?"
No reply.
Back to loop:
S T A Y O U T
After that, "it" — or "them" — changed.
The gentle, scared, questioning one was gone.
Replaced by rough, commanding, repeating "stay out".
Vibration spread.
No longer just right thigh.
Moved inward, toward knee, even waist.
Real fear set in.
Primal, instinctive, rising from spine.
Like realizing you're not alone — and it's been there a long time.
Part 9
I went to a third hospital.
Traditional Chinese Medicine. Acupuncture.
Old Doctor Chen, sixty, white hair, calloused hands.
I explained "vibration under skin" — no Morse code.
He had me lie down, checked pulse, tongue, pressed points.
Unexpected line:
"This isn't nerve trouble."
"Then what?"
"Qi." he said. "Qi flows under skin, blocked, causes vibration.
Injured lately? Extreme exercise?"
"No."
"Emotional issue." he said. "Overthinking, stagnant qi, liver attacking spleen, spleen controls muscles — hence abnormal twitches.
I'll prescribe herbs and acupuncture. Should help."
I opened my mouth, then nodded.
Herbs? Acupuncture? Stagnant qi?
If qi, why English words? Two voices? "Stay out"?
I didn't ask.
He'd think I was crazy.
That night, I decided to tell someone.
Xi Lin.
Part 10
"Are you under too much stress?"
First thing she said.
Sat on sofa, Tuanzi napping between us.
Xi Lin in old tee, messy bun, hot milk.
Worried, but I saw it — "you're talking nonsense" hidden in care.
"I know it sounds crazy," I said. "But it's talking to me. I translated Morse code. It's logical, responds, has —"
"Lin Yuan." She set down milk, held my knees.
"Ever considered your brain made this up?"
"What do you mean?"
"I believe you feel vibration — nerves, muscles, maybe.
But Morse code, conversation — your brain invented meaning to explain it."
"No. The letters are —"
"Brain looks for patterns. Instinct.
Three vibrations = S.
Four = H.
You make words.
Not from outside. From you."
I looked at her.
Sincere, rational.
She made sense.
Maybe nerves plus over-interpretation.
Random vibrations I forced meaning onto.
Like seeing shapes in clouds — not clouds, your brain.
"You're right," I said.
"Promise me full check tomorrow.
Neurology, orthopedics, rehab."
"Okay."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Xi Lin slept, steady breath.
Replayed everything.
She was right.
Just nerves and suggestion.
Morse code, dialogue, Ruth here, stay out — all made up.
I almost believed it.
Then vibration.
Not thigh. Chest.
Heart area.
Through shirt, skin — something inside my chest vibrating.
Not heartbeat.
Heartbeat: thump, thump. Strong, warm.
This: high-frequency, fine, like phone on vibrate.
I sat up sharply.
Vibration stopped.
But one spot on chest, slightly cooler.
Cold, like mint.
I touched it.
Cold spread, faded like ink in water.
I gasped in dark.
Xi Lin woke, mumbled: "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Bad dream."
She "mm"ed, rolled over, slept.
I sat until dawn.
Epilogue
Tenth day.
I didn't go to any hospital.
No Doctor Fang, Sun, or Chen.
Took day off, locked myself in.
Made a decision.
One final question.
11 PM sharp. Vibration started.
Right thigh, three short. S.
Waiting for me.
I opened the app, placed on thigh.
Said slowly:
"What exactly are you?"
Long pause.
Three minutes.
Felt cold spreading — thigh, right leg, waist, back, chest.
Then vibration.
Long sequence.
Letters typed slowly, like writing a letter:
I D O N T K N O W W H A T I A M
I don't know what I am.
B U T I K N O W W H E R E I A M
But I know where I am.
I A M I N S I D E
I am inside.
Cold sweat. Phone screen glistened with palm sweat.
Letters stopped.
Inside? Inside where?
My body? Under skin? My…
Before I could ask, vibration resumed.
Final message:
D O N T L E T I T O U T
Don't let it out.
I T W I L L C H A N G E E V E R Y T H I N G
It will change everything.
Vibration stopped.
Permanently.
After that night, no more vibrations.
Not thigh, not chest, nowhere.
Stopped mecobalamin, drank coffee again, slept after 1 AM.
Back to normal.
Sometimes I think Xi Lin was right.
Nerves, suggestion, over-interpretation.
Morse code, dialogue, Ruth, stay out — all imaginary.
Sometimes I think it was real.
Something once inside me, curled, scared, trying to speak.
Maybe still there, just quiet.
Asleep again.
One detail I never told anyone.
After final vibration, my phone lit up.
No notification. No message.
One old photo, six years old.
College dorm, four guys, beer cans, takeout boxes.
Corner, near my bed, blurry shadow.
I always thought it was light.
That night, I zoomed 4x.
Not shadow.
Shape.
A face on the wall, looking out from inside.
I stared long.
Deleted it.
Turned off phone, light, eyes.
In dark, faint temperature shift.
Not thigh, not chest.
My ear.
Someone lying next to me, one pillow away, breathing quietly.
I didn't open my eyes.
Pretended to sleep.