I woke up one morning and could hear everyone’s inner voice.
I thought at first that the TV was still on. Or maybe someone was talking outside my window. But the words weren’t in the air—they were in my head. Clear, distinct thoughts not my own, like someone was whispering secrets into my brain.
I stumbled into the kitchen, and there it was again. My roommate Lila was making coffee, her lips still but her mind loud.
“If I have to sit through one more pointless meeting today, I‘ll fake a fever. Did I pay the rent? Oh God, I hope Alex returns my call.”
I knocked my mug over. She turned around. “You okay?”
“Okay,” I growled, moving away. I did not speak what I‘d discovered. How could I?
I walked out. The city was never quiet, but now it was torture. Thoughts poured into me from every direction—pedestrians walking by on the sidewalk, drivers stopped at red lights, even a squirrel dashing along a fence (its thoughts were simple and practiced: food, move, food, move).
It wasn‘t voices. It was truth. The unedited, raw stream of consciousness nobody uttered aloud. A guy passing me on the sidewalk smiled and said, “Good morning.” But in his head: She looks lost. Or crazy. Keep walking.
I veered into a park and sat on a bench, gripping the arms as though I would fall off the planet. A woman passed by with a stroller. Her thoughts screamed beneath a calm exterior. What if I‘m a terrible mother? What if I drop her? I haven‘t slept in days. I miss the person I used to be.
It was painful, the raw reality of the world. No deception. No pretensions. Just fear, hope, longing, hatred, kindness—all colliding into one another like traffic in my mind.
I stayed inside the next day, curtains drawn. But silence escaped me. Even through walls and floors, I listened to the thoughts of neighbors, their lives transmitting like competing radio stations. One man practiced job interview answers aloud in front of the mirror while thinking, They‘ll know I‘m an imposter. I always blow it.
By the third day, I considered checking myself into a hospital. But then something happened.
I pulled into the corner store. The clerk, a tall teen with earbuds, rang me up without looking. His thoughts: Nobody ever notices me. Nobody notices me.
On impulse, I caught his eye and said, “Thanks for being here today.”
His head snapped up. He blinked, and a new thought was formed: Did she mean it?
I realized then that knowing people‘s truths didn‘t have to be a curse. It could be a blessing.
Now, I listen more. Speak less. I don‘t always respond, but when I do, I try to answer not the words spoken aloud, but the voices behind them. It‘s exhausting—but also wonderful.
For when you truly listen to someone, you can make them feel heard. And that, I‘ve learned, is a magic unto itself.