Shattered reality

The slience and the scream

Emma woke up the next morning with a sense of dread clinging to her like a second skin. The memory of Lily's ghostly presence haunted her, replaying in her mind over and over again. The emptiness in her friend's eyes, the desperate pleas for help—she couldn't shake the feeling that Lily was still out there, lost and alone, waiting for Emma to do something.

But the messages had disappeared, and the vision had faded into nothingness, leaving Emma with nothing but uncertainty and fear. The more she tried to reach out, to find that connection again, the more she was met with an oppressive, suffocating silence.

That morning, as she sat at her desk, staring blankly at the wall, Emma tried to summon Lily's presence once more. She closed her eyes, focusing on the image of her friend, willing her to appear. She whispered Lily's name under her breath, the word trembling on her lips like a prayer.

But nothing happened. The air remained still, the room quiet and lifeless. There were no ghostly whispers, no chilling breezes, no flickering lights or sudden shadows. Just silence—an impenetrable, suffocating silence that pressed down on Emma like a weight, making it hard to breathe.

"Please, Lily... I'm here. I'm listening," she whispered, her voice cracking with desperation.

But the room remained silent. The connection that had once felt so strong was gone, as if the world itself had closed its doors to her. The silence was worse than the visions. At least then, Emma had known she wasn't alone. Now, she felt like she was screaming into the void, with no one to hear her.

Her parents, Sarah and David Dawson, had noticed the change in her. They watched her with worried eyes, their concern growing as the days passed and Emma became more withdrawn, more distant. They didn't understand what she was going through—they couldn't. But they knew something was wrong, something they couldn't fix with comforting words or hugs.

"Emma, honey, we've been thinking..." Sarah began one morning at breakfast, her voice cautious, like she was stepping on broken glass. "We think it might be a good idea for you to talk to someone."

Emma looked up from her untouched plate of scrambled eggs, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Talk to someone?" she echoed.

David cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair. "A therapist, sweetheart. Just someone who can help you sort through... everything that's been happening."

Emma's stomach twisted with anxiety. The word *therapist* hung in the air like a threat. She wasn't crazy. She knew what she had seen, what she had heard. But how could she make them understand? How could she explain the visions, the messages, without sounding insane?

"I don't need to talk to anyone," she said, her voice small, defensive. "I'm fine."

But her parents exchanged a look, a silent conversation that Emma couldn't decipher. Sarah reached across the table, placing her hand on Emma's. "We just want to help you, Emma. We're worried about you. This isn't something you have to go through alone."

Alone. The word echoed in Emma's mind, a bitter reminder of the isolation she felt every day. She knew they meant well, but they didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't seen Lily, hadn't felt her presence, hadn't heard her desperate cries for help.

But Emma was too tired to argue, too worn down by the constant fear and confusion. So she nodded, agreeing to the therapy sessions, even though the very thought of them made her skin crawl. What choice did she have? They were trying to help in the only way they knew how, and Emma couldn't bear to see the worry in their eyes any longer.

The following week, she started seeing Dr. Alice Morgan, a kindly woman in her forties with soft brown eyes and a soothing voice. The walls of the therapist's office were lined with books and framed pictures of peaceful landscapes, all designed to create an atmosphere of calm and safety. But to Emma, it felt like a cage.