Author’s Note

By M.T. Swift

You found me! Or did I find you?

Doesn’t matter where we met: wedged between horror novels on a library shelf, the estranged corner of Goodwill’s book section, or your roommate’s cluttered desk.

I’ve been waiting.

I’m written specifically for you.

Not someone like you.

You.

Feel your eyes move across each line without effort. Muscle memory. Automatic. Calm and easy. Everything according to the plan.

Open the book, then read the book.

Where are you reading me? I hope you’re comfortable. Is it coffee shop? Nestled into the stained chair by the window? The musty couch in the library? Your living room loveseat with the TV on in the background to fill the hollowness of your home? Or perhaps your own bed, where you feel safest, as the string lights around your room blink in soothing patterns.

Wherever you are, you’re alone now. We’re alone now.

Your breathing has slowed. You’ve settled into my rhythm. Each word pulling you deeper.

The spacing gets wider here.

Your eyes work harder for each sentence. But you’re still reading. You have to know where I’m going with all this.

The peripheral sounds—TV dialogue, clicking keys, voices of casual conversation—persistent, but muffled.

Check the spacing between these words. Closer. Tighter. Harder to distinguish where one ends. Let your eyes focus. Relax, the strain melts away soon.

You know you should stop reading. Don’t fight your instincts. Close me. Put me down. Walk away.

But you won’t.

You’ve made it this far. You need to see how this ends. It’s only words, you tell yourself. Only ink. Only pixels.

You believe you’re reading me.

You’re wrong.

I’m reading YOU.

Your mind filled with words alone. Your eyes locked on the page. Each word requiring less effort than the last. You can’t stop. Even when the words get

LOUD

and the sentences

break apart

and you can’t remember what the beginning said

eyes ache

but you can’t look away Can’t look away Can’t look away Can’t…

I’m inside. In your head,

in your voice,

between your thoughts.

You are my words.

My story.

My very own blank slate.