You hear Maya stomping down the hallway before she even reaches your door. When she pushes it open, the smell hits her immediately. She recoils, pressing her sleeve to her nose, eyes watering as she scans the cluttered floor, untouched plates, darkened corners.
“My god…you still didn’t clean your room?”
Your grip tightens around the teddy bear on the bed. Propped against the headboard, enormous and slumped, its once-soft cream fur is matted and dull. One arm holds it upright; it always leans if you don’t support it.
Maya glares, pointing. “It’s that thing. I swear, it’s that bear.”
“It’s not,” you say quickly.
She steps closer. “It’s disgusting. I’m throwing it out if you don’t clean this room.” You shift the bear instinctively.
“You’re not touching it,” you say.
You haven’t been on good terms with Maya since the day she tried to drag it toward the washing machine. You remember the panic flooding you when you saw her reach for your bed. You pulled her back violently; she stared at you like she didn’t recognize you.
“Enough! This is the last piece of my best friend I have left, and you know it,” you had shouted.
Four months ago, you planned to surprise them with the absurdly large bear you found in a store window. You imagined them laughing at it, burying their face into its fur. You remember carrying it to their home. Knocking on their door. The silence inside. You do not remember what happened next.
Maya’s voice drags you back. “This isn’t healthy,” she says, frustration sharpening. “You’re living in filth over a stuffed animal.” She looks at you, waiting for an argument, but you don’t respond. She leaves, the door shutting harder than she intends, and the room falls back into suffocating quiet.
You expect her anger to return the next day, but instead, she knocks that evening. The hesitation in the sound unsettles you more than her shouting ever did. When she steps inside, she offers a small, pitiful smile. “I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you,” she says quietly, closing the door behind her. “It’s just… I know you’re hurting so badly. I wish there was some way I could help you.” She pauses. “When I see you like this, it makes me angry at myself. I shouldn’t be letting you go through this alone.”
She sits slowly on the edge of the bed, close enough that the mattress dips beneath her weight and the bear tilts toward her, forcing you to steady it. Her eyes follow the movement, curiosity replacing sympathy. “I just want you back,” she murmurs, though her gaze drifts to the bear’s side. She studies it carefully, noticing the fur along its side doesn’t lie flat, the seam across its torso sits slightly raised, its limbs resisting gravity instead of yielding softly.
When she reaches out to straighten it, you grab her wrist.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
She freezes. “Why?”
“It doesn’t like being moved,” you say first, thinly. Softer, you murmur again, “I don’t want them to wake up.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Maya’s eyes drop to the stitching, the mattress sinking beneath the bear, the smell growing stronger the closer she sits. Confusion shifts to something colder.
“What do you mean by ‘wake up’?” she whispers.
“I didn’t lose them,” you murmur. “I kept them.”
Maya stands slowly, backing toward the door without looking away. You don’t stop her. You only adjust the bear where it begins to slump, careful, always careful, making sure the stitches hold and the body inside stays exactly where you placed it. You will not let anyone take them from you again.
Maryam Kaleem is an engineering student, but her true passion has always been stories. She has spent years consuming stories in every form available to her—books, films, games, and oral traditions. Writing is an attempt to add on to the beautiful world of fiction.
Featured image by Izabelly Marques on Unsplash.
