I didn't mean to see it. 

That's the thing about the truth—it doesn't care if you're ready for it. It doesn't wait for you to finish your coffee, or pay your rent, or figure out why your life feels like a broken record skipping on the same damn note. It just *happens*. And when it does, it doesn't matter how much you want to look away. You can't. 

I was walking home from work, the kind of late-night shift that leaves your bones aching and your brain numb. The streets were empty, the kind of empty that makes you feel like the last person on Earth. The flickering streetlights cast long shadows that danced like they were alive, and the air was thick with the kind of silence that presses against your ears. 

I should've known something was off. 

But I didn't. I was too busy thinking about how much my feet hurt and how I was going to make rent this month. Again. My life was a series of "agains"—again late for work, again broke, again alone. I was so wrapped up in my own head that I didn't notice the way the shadows seemed to stretch a little too far, or how the air felt heavier with every step. 

And then I heard it. 

A sound like glass cracking, but deeper, like it was coming from somewhere inside my skull. I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart pounding in my chest. For a second, I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I was finally losing it. Maybe the stress had finally gotten to me. 

But then I saw it. 

A crack in the air. 

I blinked, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. But it was still there—a jagged line, like someone had taken a knife to the world and sliced it open. It hung in the air, shimmering faintly, and for a moment, I thought it was beautiful. 

And then something moved inside it. 

I don't know how to describe what I saw. It wasn't an animal, not really. It was too wrong for that. Its body was a mass of shifting shadows, its limbs too long and too thin, like they'd been stretched out of shape. Its face—if you could call it a face—was a mess of teeth and eyes, all of them looking right at me. 

I froze. My brain screamed at me to run, but my body wouldn't listen. I just stood there, staring at the thing as it pulled itself through the crack, its movements jerky and unnatural. 

And then it saw me. 

Its eyes—all of them—locked onto mine, and I felt something cold and heavy settle in my chest. It wasn't fear. It was worse than fear. It was the kind of feeling you get when you realize you're about to die, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. 

The thing lunged at me, its mouth opening wider than should've been possible. I stumbled back, my legs finally deciding to work, but it was too late. The thing was on me, its claws digging into my shoulders, its breath hot and rancid against my face. 

I don't know what happened next. Everything went blurry, like I was watching it through a fogged-up window. I remember the pain—sharp and burning, like my skin was being ripped apart. I remember the sound of my own screaming, distant and muffled, like it was coming from someone else. 

And then, just when I thought it was over, I felt something *shift* inside me. 

It started in my chest, a warmth that spread through my body like wildfire. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't exactly pleasant either. It was like something waking up after a long sleep, stretching and testing its limits. 

And then it reached my head. 

The pain was instant and blinding, like someone had driven a knife into my skull and twisted it. I fell to my knees, clutching my head as the world around me dissolved into chaos. The shadows twisted and writhed, the air filled with a sound like a thousand voices screaming at once. 

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. 

The pain was gone, replaced by a strange, almost eerie calm. I could still feel the warmth in my chest, but it was softer now, like a low hum in the back of my mind. 

I looked up, half-expecting to see the thing still standing over me. But it was gone. The crack in the air was gone too, leaving no trace that anything had happened. 

But something *had* happened. 

I could feel it. 

I reached up, my fingers brushing against my forehead. There was something there—a faint line, like a scar, but smoother, almost like it had always been there. 

I didn't know what it meant. Not yet. 

But I would. 

Because the truth doesn't care if you are ready for it.