She stands in the middle of the room, her fingers dug into her ears—filling her world with underwater silence. The sound of her heart squeezes each beat through her broken frame.

The tackless pieces of tape cling to her upper eyelids, hanging loose—unstuck below. Her eyes remain closed only through the belief the tape is still holding.

She feels something brush against her. Hands claw at her arms, desperately trying to pry her fingers from her ears. The drowning voices stay buried beneath the frantic beat of her heart as it hammers through her chest.

She swallows as arms snatch at her face and legs, while half-heard screams and cries rise up around her—but, as always, as it is, she ignores them all. She gasps as a hand touches her face, wet, grotesque. Then she feels the pull, and her lashes tear free as the tape rips from her eyes.

The chaos stops.

The torn, decayed strips of old tape flutter gently to the blood-smeared floor. Dead eyes stare on, watching them fall—as if the act itself was already forgotten.

A sea of glass, plastic, and plasterboard covers the floor—along with bodies in various stages of decay.

Her eyes twitch—the sting from the torn tape pulses at the corners of her flesh. She doesn’t want to open them again. She knows time will never heal the wounds. She swallows. The images of what was—and what might still be—dance behind her eyes. The fear of what she might see swims inside them.

The silence rolls back over her—not asking questions, not whispering lies.

She stutters, sobbing silently as she clenches her teeth together, a tear tumbling from her cheek.

Her lips tremble as her heart skips, racing in her chest, while her breath catches in her throat. She sucks in desperately, pulling a finger from her ear. She clutches at her chest and sinks to the floor in frantic panic.

Finally, a gasp escapes. She gulps breath after breath. Her hand hesitates halfway to her ear, then stops. She freezes, eyes shut tight, listening to the silence pressing in around her.

For minutes, she stands, motionless, her breaths shallow, incomplete, as she listens to the empty world surrounding her. With a trembling hand, she pulls her other finger free. Her heart skips again as the excitement washes over her—but, as before, there is only silence.

She swallows and takes a deep, teary breath, as she slowly opens her eyes—narrow at first. She gasps as she spies the carnage beneath her feet—the wet, fresh blood layered on dried puddles of cracked crimson. She closes her eyes and swallows again, and, with the aid of several more breaths, she opens her eyes once more.

The room swims before her, and as she casts her gaze slowly across the floor, she recognises them. Twisted in glass and blood. The almosts. The mistakes. The ones who said they’d stay. The ones who left anyway.

They’re the ones she sees when her eyes are closed. The ones she’s always seen—in the silence, when it’s just her.

She sets her eyes on several sets of feet—standing motionless in scattered positions around her. Slowly, her eyes glide up over their naked bodies. She gasps again—her breath catches in her chest as she sees they all have their fingers stuck in their ears, and their eyes are taped shut.

She doesn’t recognise them. She never has.

Hundreds of them, spread out before her, while bodies and carnage lie at their feet.

She gasps, taking a stuttered breath, as she locks eyes with another, who stands in the same bewilderment as she does.

She smiles nervously—and so does she.

Then, almost involuntarily, they step closer.

A connection—recognition. A twitch of the lip. A broken shape behind her eyes, whispering—”I see you.”

She breathes again. And reaches out.