It started just like a normal day. I got out of bed, brushed my teeth and everything—but something felt weird.
I could hear my mom thinking, “Hope he doesn’t ask for pancakes again. We’re out of eggs.” But her mouth didn’t move at all.
I looked at her and said, “That’s okay. I’ll eat cereal.”
She looked at me like I’d turned into a dragon or something.
On the bus, it got even crazier.
Everyone had thoughts, and I could hear all of them at the same time—like radio stations with no off button.
The driver was thinking about his dog named Pickles, who ran away last night.
The girl next to me was thinking, “I hope no one sees my drawing in my notebook,” but I had already seen it. It was a unicorn eating pizza.
At school, it didn’t stop.
Mr. Benson, our science teacher, was thinking, “Why did I become a teacher? I wanted to be an actor.”
I almost laughed out loud, but I didn’t want to get in trouble again.
At lunch, things got even louder.
One kid was thinking in French—and I somehow understood it.
One girl was just counting the ceiling tiles over and over.
Then I heard something strange.
A voice said, “You are not ready for the truth.”
But it wasn’t a kid or a teacher. It felt big and cold—like wind in your brain.
I ran to the bathroom and splashed water on my face.
I looked in the mirror and said, “What is happening to me?”
No answer.
Just silence in the room, but noise in my head.
Later, when I got home, I tried to ignore everything.
But even my goldfish had a thought. It said, “Swim, food, swim, food.”
Which was kind of funny—but also scary.
The next morning, I woke up, and everything was quiet.
No voices—just my own thoughts again.
I felt lonely, but also calm.
Now, I listen every morning.
Just in case they come back.