Chad Anderson

The House of Echoes I’ve haunted your life through every class, every shared space, now the same roof. Crossing lines so far, you can taste it, until the storm that changed everything. Glass shattered, room torn open by wind and fear. When I found you, you were huddled in the corner, trembling. I rushed to you, scooped you up and cradled you as if you were a child who trusted me to keep you safe. When dawn breaks, I slip away. Your scent still lingers on my hoodie, an unspoken promise that what I felt wasn’t just a dream. The house holds its breath when you rise with questions in your eyes. Storm clouds wrap around us again, the house sighing under their weight. I hunt you through the halls. When I find you breathing ragged, hands clenching around your pillow, I crawl into the bed with you. The storm roars a hiss against the windows, the room still and thick, but you didn’t flinch this time. You settled deeper into me as I offer a strange kind of anchor. I don’t want to pretend tonight. There’s no smart remarks, no sarcasm, just a faint and almost reluctant exhale that sounds like an apology I’ve never spoken. I pull you closer, jaw clenched, trying to pretend I’m the one in control when every gust rattles that wall I pretend I’ve built around myself. I’ve spent years weaponizing noise, loud talk, louder jokes, so no one ever hears the tremor under the swagger. Tonight, the storm isn’t just outside; it claws at the edges of me, tearing down the mask I wear. I swallow the urge to retreat behind my usual shell and try to be braver than I feel. I don’t want to be that guy who uses fear to run the room anymore. Not with you. Chad Anderson, 23