Just Me

Author’s Note:
This piece explores the quiet, uncomfortable shifts that come with personal growth. It’s about the tension between who we’ve been and who we’re trying to become. I hope this piece resonates with anyone who’s ever felt caught in that in-between space.

Content warning: ⚠️ This story includes emotional distress and some scenes of violence.

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CRYSTAL

As I grabbed my phone to turn off my alarm, I noticed multiple text messages from Greta. All from late last night. I’ve been working on building a new writing habit in the mornings, which means I prioritize sleep and get to bed early most nights. Greta has a tendency to text me late, so I had to start putting my phone on DND this past week.

Greta and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. Some people say we’re basically one person because of how much time we spend together. I disagree, but she, on the other hand, can’t seem to live without me. I’ve tried multiple times to distance myself from her. Some might even call it a breakup, but it never seems to stick.

My husband always asks me why I want space from her, and the answer is simple. I can’t become the person I want to be with her constantly attached to my hip. I want to finish writing my horror book. I want to read more. I want to stop being consumed by social media and the news. I want to treat my body better, to eat well and move more.

Greta would rather scroll for hours and then complain about how her nervous system is shot, how her days are filled with anxiety. She pretends her self-esteem is unshakable, but I know the truth. She’s drowning in the comparison game. Most nights she stays up watching TV or going out drinking, doing anything to avoid her reality.

Even when she works out, it’s the bare minimum. She makes promises to herself and breaks them the next day. There's always a headache, always a complaint, and somehow it's always my job to hear about it. The negativity clings to her like a second skin, and being near it feels like swimming to the surface with someone holding your ankles.

I hesitated before opening the messages. There were seven of them.

Greta:

I know you’re ignoring me again.

This isn’t healthy, Crystal.

You always act like you’re better than me.

But we both know you’re not.

You can’t cut me out. I won’t let you.

You need me.

Come see me. Now.

I stared at the last message. “Come see me. Now.” No emoji. No punctuation. Just a command, like she knew I would.

And the worst part? A small part of me wanted to, but it was 5 in the morning. She could wait until after work. I thought about texting her back but decided to wait.

Instead, I wrote for an hour and got my workout in before work. It felt good to actually follow through on my writing intentions. Greta is all talk when it comes to her dreams and goals. She loves to go on about them but never puts in the work. It was nice to do all of it in peace, without the Greta negativity goggles on. I felt accomplished and in the right mindset to take on the day.

As I walked into my 9 to 5, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. Dread immediately consumed me. As I climbed the eight flights of stairs, I pulled out my phone. Another six texts from her.

Greta:

I saw you walk in. You looked tired.

You can’t cut me off like this. We’ve been through worse.

You think they care about you? I’m the only one who actually sees you.

Every version of you still needs me. You’ll see.

Why do you always take the stairs? It’s weird. Just use the elevator like everyone else.

You can pretend all day, but we both know I’ll see you tonight.

This time, I won’t let you leave.

As I reached for my keycard to let myself into the office, I caught myself agreeing with her. Should I just take the elevator like everyone else? I caught my reflection in the glass windows of the offices I passed. The dark circles under my eyes stood out more than I expected. I really need to do a better job with my makeup tomorrow.

I ignored Greta’s texts, sat down, and logged in.

I told myself I was fine. I wasn’t.

---

GRETA

I was already ten minutes deep into staring at the login screen when I realized I hadn’t even typed in my password. Whatever. None of it mattered anyway. This job was a joke. The people were fake. The lighting made me look like a corpse.

And still—still—no response from Crystal. She saw my messages. I know she did. She’s playing games again. She always does this when she’s trying to feel better than me.

She really thinks she’s an author now. Like, she writes books. She never even went to school for that. She’s just... no fun anymore.

But she’ll come crawling back. She always does. She’ll realize that nothing can break our bond. I won’t let it.

I answered a few emails and immediately grabbed my phone. I needed to check Instagram. And TikTok. There’s just so much going on in this horrible timeline I’m stuck living in. But I need to stay informed. How else would I know what to prepare for?

I just can’t believe I’m still expected to act like I care about this job. Corporate garbage. It all feels pointless. By the looks of things, we’re all doomed anyway, so what’s the point of pretending?

Honestly, I’d rather be home watching my shows. With Crystal.

I looked at the clock on my computer. It was only 11:00 AM. My stomach was rumbling, but everything I packed was full of healthy crap. I try to listen to Crystal sometimes, but right now I instantly regret it. I don’t want yogurt and fruit for a snack. Who am I kidding? I’m cursed. I always end up with a headache no matter what I eat or drink, so I might as well just eat what I actually want. Chocolate. Chips. Soda.

I grabbed my keycard, wallet and phone and headed down to the deli in the building. I took the elevator, of course. I’m not a weirdo like her.

The deli’s options were limited, but I ended up getting a Snickers bar and a can of Coke. Once I got back to my desk, I cracked it open and drank half the can in one go. It tasted so good. Exactly what I needed.

I opened Instagram again to check for any news updates. Crystal posted a video. One of her daily "inspire" posts, talking about her workouts or sharing some words of positivity or encouragement. Blah, blah, blah. Who does she think she is? Really? She only got like 23 views anyway. It’s not like she’s changing the world or anything. I mean... read the room, Crystal. No one cares. Except me.

When will she realize it?

I liked the post. I always do. She notices when I don’t. Then I swiped out of Instagram and opened my text messages. She still hasn’t replied. I should text her again.

I know you’ve seen my texts.

You can’t avoid me.

Not forever.

I’ll be there tonight.

8PM.

Don’t pretend you don’t know why.

I hit send and stared at my phone. I saw the dots. She read the texts. To my surprise, she responded immediately.

Crystal:
Fine.

---

CRYSTAL

I don’t know why I replied. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I just wanted it to end. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen. I stared at the word “Fine” on the screen, still glowing in our message thread. It didn’t feel like my voice, but I sent it.

I forced myself to put the phone down and focused on work for the rest of the day. I even ate most of the healthy lunch I packed. Or at least, I thought I did. When I got home and unpacked my bag, the yogurt and fruit were still there, completely untouched. I stared at them for a second, like they might explain something. Maybe I was more distracted than I realized.

The rest of the evening blurred into routine: dinner with my husband, half an hour of writing, then some time in the garden.

I was bent down deadheading the Black-eyed Susans when something moved in the corner of my eye. I stood up to get a better look and there she was.

Sitting on my deck. Smoking weed. Smiling right at me.

“Oh. Hey Greta,” I said, slightly annoyed she didn’t give me a heads-up before showing up.

“Hi,” she replied, exhaling smoke.

“Want to talk in the garden?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“So I can get eaten alive by all those damn bugs? No thank you. I’ll wait up here. I’d rather just talk inside anyway.” She packed her one-hitter with more weed. “You really should spray some OFF and get rid of all those bugs. It would make sitting out here much more enjoyable.”

Greta hates the garden and always acts like she’s not allowed in here.

I took my time finishing deadheading and watering while she smoked weed and stared at me with that smile.

“Want a hit?” Greta asked with a sly smile as I closed the garden gate. She flicked the lighter between her fingers like a kid showing off, then raised an eyebrow.

I hesitated, and she rolled her eyes, leaning back against the fence with a casual shrug.

“Sure. Just one. You know this messes with my sleep and wakes up my anxiety. So I can only microdose.”

I grabbed the one-hitter, inhaled while Greta lit it for me, and of course, I immediately started coughing.

“This is why I’m trying to slow down on the smoking. I end up smoking too much and the rest of my day is gone. Everything I planned doesn’t get done and I end up doomscrolling. That shit gives me headaches and messes with my sleep. You need to slow down already, Greta.”

We were walking into the house as I said it.

“Well, well, well,” she snapped, voice low but sharp. “You take one hit and suddenly you’re better than me. I came over to have a nice conversation about why you’ve been avoiding me, but I guess we’re squabbling up right away.”

“What do you want from me? I just want you to leave me alone already. You’re always making me feel like shit and never being supportive or happy for me.” I tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“I’ve been here for you your entire life. And now, just because you want to be an author, you spit me out like trash. News flash, Crystal, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t have anyone else. You keep chasing things you don’t have when you should just realize all you need is me. Forever!” Greta yelled, her voice sharp and raw as she ran her hands through her hair, then pressed her palms against her face in frustration.

I took a shaky breath and stepped back. “You don’t get it. I’m done being trapped.”

Her eyes flashed, and in an instant, she lunged.

I stepped back and instinctively grabbed a kitchen knife.

“Ha ha ha ha. What are you going to do with that? Do you even know how to use it? Are you trying to hurt me?” Greta sneered, slow and deliberate like a predator circling its prey. Her smile was tight and cold, never quite reaching her sharp, unblinking eyes that bore into me.

“You can’t hurt me. As much as you don’t want to admit it, if you hurt me, you’re only hurting yourself. You love me, Crystal. Now and forever.”

Her fingers lightly traced the edge of a second kitchen knife as she reached for it. Her breath was steady and calm, unnervingly controlled. She leaned in just a little, invading my space with the faintest tilt of her head, as if mocking me.

My heart hammered in my chest as Greta’s eyes locked onto mine. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet felt rooted to the spot.

I gripped the knife tighter, knuckles whitening. The cold metal was a strange comfort in my trembling hand.

Her calm, mocking stare made my skin crawl, but I refused to look away. I wasn’t going to let her see me break.

“Stay back,” I warned, voice low but steady.

A shaky breath escaped me, but I forced it down. This wasn’t just about fear anymore. It was about fighting for the life I wanted, one where I wasn’t trapped by her anymore.

“Or what? You’re going to stab me? Do it. I dare you.” She walked toward me slowly, eyes locked on mine.

“You’re nothing without me. You’re worthless. Your chances of becoming a published author are next to none, Crystal. Stop fooling yourself. You can’t do it.”

Without thinking, my hand shot forward and I lunged at Greta. It was like my body betrayed me, moving before my mind could catch up. The knife plunged into Greta’s arm with a sickening resistance, sharp pain jolting through my fingers as warm blood oozed out and soaked my hand. She gasped, eyes wide with shock and pain.

“You bitch! How dare you sta—” she cried out.

Again, it was like I didn’t have control of my body. I ripped the knife from her arm and stabbed her again, this time, the other arm. Then her chest.

She collapsed to the floor, and I kept going. Again. And again. And again.

When I finally stopped, my hands were shaking, soaked in blood. It was on my face. I could feel it drying on my skin, but I couldn’t bring myself to wipe it off.

“You’ll never be rid of me,” she whispered with her last breath. “I am you.”

“Greta. Greta. Greta…” I crumpled beside her, hugging her limp body. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just... I couldn’t carry you anymore.”

A voice broke through the silence.

“Hun? Are you okay? What’s going on? Who are you talking to? and why do you have a knife in your hand?”

I looked up. My husband stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

There was no one else in the room.

Just me.