Every morning, Lily woke up before the sun. The first thing she did was step outside and light a cigarette. Puffing and exhaling while staring at nothing, the smoke curled into the sky. Back inside, she opened an ice-cold Pepsi, her first taste of comfort. She sat in silence, mentally bracing herself for the weight of the day.

Soon, the house stirred. Whispers turned into arguments, little feet scurried. Without thinking, Lily moved– turning on the TV, pouring cereal, wiping up spills before they could even hit the floor. The day unfolded loudly. Messy. Repetitive.

By afternoon, the house quieted. The three littlest ones were under blankets, and the older ones disappeared into their phones or behind doors. It never lasted long, but for a few minutes, Lily could hear her own thoughts again. 

Then she saw a glow from the microwave–3:33 p.m. Bright, still, as if time itself had paused in anticipation of her recognition. That’s when she found the paper, intricately folded into a heart with her name on it. Lily scanned her surroundings, heart racing. A chill ran down her spine. “Where did this come from?” she whispered. Hesitant but curious, she unfolded it. A single line: You’re disappearing, and no one’s going to notice until you’re gone. The message shook her. She didn’t know what scared her more–the words themselves or how deeply they echoed something she’d never said aloud. 

She crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash. But its words clung to her like smoke. All afternoon, she heard it whisper beneath the microwave’s hum and the cartoon buzz. Was it true? Had she already vanished? 

She told herself it was a phase. Something all mothers went through. But deep down, she knew this wasn’t just exhaustion. It reminded her of the  movie Drop Dead Fred, where the main character takes pills that make her imaginary friend disappear. Not pills—but the dull weight of routine.

Most days, Lily felt like a ghost. The house held her hostage with its sameness–the untouched laundry, the fridge stained with neglect, the page half-colored like a thought left unfinished. But that day… the day she found the note… something shifted. Not in the house. In her. A quiet fracture beneath the surface, like a hairline crack in glass that hadn’t shattered but eventually would. 

She finished the day on autopilot, unable to get those words out of her head. When night finally came, she brushed her teeth, eyes fixated on the sink. The mirror in front of her felt too close, too reflective. She didn’t want to see the truth in her own eyes—the hollow fatigue, the quiet unraveling. She rushed through the motions, offering soft kisses and half-whispered goodnights like echoes–present, but fading before they could settle. 

Finally, Lily lay on her bed, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling as the noise looped through her mind like a relentless mantra. Each repetition embedded itself more deeply. Eventually, the weight of it all lulled her to sleep.  

Lily woke up feeling heavier than the day before. She felt paralyzed but knew she had to get up. She moved slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, pressing her feet into the floor like she had to remind herself she was still here. 

The house was still quiet, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. She stepped outside and lit her morning ritual cigarette. She went to put it out, accidentally knocking the cherry onto her leg. She didn’t even flinch; she just walked back inside. 

The house had already started without her. The cartoons were loud in the background, kids were playing, and there was a mess that needed cleaning. She moved through it all like she was watching someone else live her life. 

Thinking to herself, “How do you tell someone that every day you feel more like wallpaper?” Fading into the backdrop of your own life? That they all look through you… not out of cruelty, but habit? 

She thought of the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper, creeping behind the patterns no one else noticed–trapped in a room built by routine and silence. She wanted to scream. 

Then one of her kids tugged her sleeve and called her “Mom.” She thought she’d forgotten the note. But in every quiet moment, its truth returned. Not a warning—a confirmation.

Lily smiled. Not because she felt okay. But because that’s what disappearing people do. 

They smile, so no one notices they’re already halfway gone.

Biography:

I came to Aims with the intention to finish what I had started so long ago, and to build a better future for myself and my family while pursuing my lifelong interest in criminal justice. As a student and a mom, my journey hasn’t been easy but definitely worth it! I never really considered myself an artsy person until I took mythology and creative writing with Professor Karen McCurley-Hardesty. In her classes, I learned so much, and discovered that I genuinely loved writing. It gave me a new way to express myself and reflect on my experiences. My pieces Internal Haunting and Stillness with Teeth were inspired by exploring inner thoughts and emotions that are often hard for me to put into words. They focused on the quieter, more unsettling feelings, and what it means to sit with them. I’m drawn to writing that feels honest, even when it’s uncomfortable. Being included in this publication means the world to me. I honestly never thought any of my work would be chosen. Stepping outside of my comfort zone pushed me to create something beautiful and meaningful. Thank you so much!!