The hiding man is now behind my curtains. He is crouching behind the rippling fabric. If he catches me watching in, he slithers away into a corner. He isn't shy per se, but he would rather I don't spy on him.
My black room has been his home for a while, but he will always remain a visitor. He doesn't walk around the room the way I do, he doesn't touch or own any of the things. Sometimes, he walks over and hides behind my books. I see him reading the titles, cocked head and grumpy face.
We never speak. I accepted his presence with more curiosity than suspicion. I nodded at him only once, the first time he ever came by. And when I went for a vacation, I saw him there too, hiding behind an unfamiliar house plant.
I did realize then, the first time since he came, that the hiding man isn't hiding from me. He is hiding with me.
My black room has been his home for a while, but he will always remain a visitor. He doesn't walk around the room the way I do, he doesn't touch or own any of the things. Sometimes, he walks over and hides behind my books. I see him reading the titles, cocked head and grumpy face.
We never speak. I accepted his presence with more curiosity than suspicion. I nodded at him only once, the first time he ever came by. And when I went for a vacation, I saw him there too, hiding behind an unfamiliar house plant.
I did realize then, the first time since he came, that the hiding man isn't hiding from me. He is hiding with me.
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