The Permanent Roommate

I don’t remember the day he moved in, not exactly. He just arrived one random Tuesday years ago and never left. When I introduced myself to my new roommate, I was met with cold indifference; it seemed the Shadow liked to keep to himself. You see, he had only signed a short-term lease. He was supposed to leave a fortnight after his arrival, a temporary guest passing through the hip hostel of my mind. But the deadline came and went, and he never packed his bags. I politely tried to ask him to leave, but the request only seemed to infuriate him. He did not follow me around before, but he did now—a dark, looming silhouette that refused to be evicted.

I stared into the mirror a bit longer one morning and was unable to recognize the guy on the other side. The Shadow was leaning against the cold tile, holding something resembling a blueprint. "You’d be more lovable if you just fixed the flaws," he said. So I worked on the weight, the hair, the teeth. I treated my body like a house I was trying to flip, hoping to prove the Shadow wrong, hoping that he would finally leave me alone if I just listened to him. But the blueprints kept changing. "See?" he chuckled as I hit the limit of my endurance. "No matter how much you renovate, you’re not going to get there. And I will always be the one living in the master bedroom."

The Shadow has a projector that he likes to bring out at the most inconvenient of times. He has all these embarrassing, painful memories of mine on a reel—every stutter, every failure. He usually deploys this projector like a taser. It is a tool of pure subdual. Whenever the "self" I knew before him tries to break free, he clicks the light on. He flashes my own shame against the wall until I am paralyzed, reminded exactly why I deserve to be in the dark.

I tried telling friends and family about the existence of the Shadow. I screamed multiple times into chasms, hoping someone would acknowledge the existence of my Mexican standoff with him. In their defense, acceptance and reliability are pretty big asks. Instead, I was treated to conversations about dead uncles following them and was offered roles in seances. When I pressed harder, the "ghost stories" turned into lectures about human suffering, the fragility of the mind, and meaningless reassurances about how life will be okay. Maybe they looked for ghosts in the room because they couldn't handle the monster in my head.

I was told to chase purpose. For a while, the pursuit of purpose made the Shadow so dumbfounded that he was forced to go quiet. But eventually, he would find his verbal footing. "You could save puppies all you want," he’d ask, leaning against the wall of my latest "meaningful" hobby. "But how many more bottles of scotch will you need to erase the knowledge that there is nothing sustainable you can do, about anything, you stupid optimistic piece of shit?" Probably a lot, I found myself thinking.

Sometimes, I find a way to forget him. In the rhythm of sports, his voice is drowned out by my breathing. But he hates being forgotten. Every time I reach for my gear, he’s on the bench, smirking. "Dude, what’s even the point? You’re just a hamster on a wheel." He watches from the sidelines, bleeding the momentum out of my limbs until I lose matches that were already in the bag.

When the noise gets too loud, I reach for the bottle. Alcohol makes the Shadow sleepy; it’s the only lullaby he responds to. For a few golden, blurry hours, the "flatness" of the world gets a little warmth around the edges. But I realize now that even that one night of sleep was just a loan from him. And the Shadow is a predatory lender. He doesn’t give away silence for free; he just puts it on a high-interest credit card. The next morning, he’s standing over the bed before the sun even hits the floorboards. "Look at you. Pathetic," he whispers. "Stumbling around for liquid courage. And what exactly did you buy with that one night of forgetfulness? You’re still here. And I’m still here."

To ensure no one could rescue me, the Shadow helped me strap on a mask of nonchalance. It's heavy and it makes me bleed, but the Shadow just calls it a "snug fit." "Keep it tight," he warns. "If they see the real you, they’ll run. Or worse, they’ll try to 'fix' us, and you know how that ends. Be the mystery, not the tragedy." He slams a sheet of soundproof glass onto the mask, sealing me in. I am left staring out at the world through a thick, distorted pane, screaming into a vacuum that no one will ever hear.

I have twelve tabs open on my laptop. Flights or trains, mostly. Google Maps is zoomed all the way out. The Shadow sits on the edge of the desk, watching the cursor flicker. He likes the "Browsing" phase; it keeps me in perpetual transit. I’m not really planning anything. I’m just browsing exits.

I hate travel. And yet, there is a certain peace that comes with being alone in a foreign place. But I am never really alone. The Shadow is an invisible traveler. He clears immigration without a passport. By the time the novelty fades, I unzip my bag and realize he was the lining of the suitcase all along. I remember sitting in a small Italian restaurant in a tropical paradise, sipping my sangria. At that moment, the Shadow wasn't really annoying. I had delightful conversations with him, typing them into my phone. Among strangers who knew nothing of my history, I didn't have to tiptoe. In the vacuum of a foreign city, the Shadow and I could finally just be. It was the only time the "Invasion" felt like a partnership.

I questioned why the Shadow wouldn’t leave me alone. Doctors spoke of genetics and Vitamin D; some blamed trauma. But there was no smoking gun. I think he was just there because he could be. Pills didn’t help; neither did sunlight; nor did warmth. And how could they? The sun seemed too small a star to warm up the frost created by the Shadow’s breath; how could a hug really help? I like to blame him for everything. It’s easier. But I did not see the Shadow place this anvil on my heart; I mean, he couldn’t have. He’s just smoke. The anvil must have always been there.

In my mind, I fight the Shadow. I see the scene clearly: I suddenly, radically choose to live again. I kick the Shadow to the curb, burn his bags, and start living a conscious, meaningful life. I imagine the colors coming back. I write it down, word for word, and for a brief moment it becomes my reality.

"If you're done writing your pathetic little write-up," the Shadow says, leaning over my shoulder to read the screen. "Shall we?" He gestures toward a door that wasn't there a moment ago—an opening into a familiar, lightless expanse. It is the dark theater where he runs the projector, and the air is thick with the scent of old forgotten things; it is where we have spent many nights locked in a stalemate. He doesn't need to force me; he simply waits by the door, knowing that it is the only one in the house that fits me anymore.

I paused for a moment and looked out the window. I remembered the people dearest to me and how they came around to accept the existence of the Shadow. And with acceptance came concern, and with concern came a need for me to pretend: to pretend that I'm okay, that I’m rid of him, that I in fact do find a point in living.

In many ways, it was easier with the Shadow. For all his vices, I never had to pretend with him. Hell, as far as permanent roommates go, I could do a lot worse. 

I shut my laptop. The click was final. I stood up and adjusted my shirt and my watch, smoothing out the sleeves. “Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”