Night had fallen like ink, and the dormitory was silent. I was the only one left, curled up at my desk. A light breeze drifted in through the window, bringing a chill that felt as if it might scatter all my secrets into the air. But they remained locked deep inside me—heavy, like thallium, impossible to cast off.
I kept asking myself: how did I come to this? How did I become someone who brings pain?
That day, sunlight streamed through the laboratory window, catching the tips of Phoebe Feng's hair. Her smile was radiant as spring, her gaze clear and confident. She was so dazzling, so untouchable.
And I was merely an observer, standing in the shadows.
In that moment, jealousy coiled inside me like a silent snake. My breath quickened. A thousand images flashed through my mind: her surrounded by classmates' praise, her softly asking to borrow the lab, and me—unable to respond.
I told myself, it's just a "warning." I only wanted her to realize that I existed too.
I picked up the vial of thallium. The liquid felt cold at my fingertips, but my heart pounded like thunder. I didn't want to hurt her—just stop her for a moment. Make her see me—the one who had been ignored for too long.
But that vial of thallium quietly corroded not just her body, but my last thread of sanity.
As her condition worsened—hair loss, vomiting, cries of agony—it felt like my soul was being torn apart. Every time I saw confusion in her eyes, it was like being struck with a hammer to the chest.
I tried to hide. I tried to escape. When the police came to investigate, I was silent as a grave—too afraid to confess, too afraid to confront the darkness within me.
I was afraid of the world. And afraid of the abyss inside myself.
At night, I would look in the mirror and see a stranger's face—hollow eyes, tear stains along the corners. I asked myself: "What do you have left? Do you still deserve warmth?"
But I knew—thallium's weight doesn't only erode the body. It etches guilt into the soul, a stain that can never be washed away.
Day by day, the campus was shrouded in suspicion and fear. Phoebe Feng's friends searched desperately for the truth. Her parents kept vigil at the hospital, praying for a miracle.
And I, trapped in this silent lab, wrestled endlessly with my own conscience.
Sometimes, I fantasized about going back. If I had the chance, I'd confess. I'd ask for help. But reality doesn't allow rewinds. All I could do was bury the truth deep inside, let it ferment into darkness.
One night, I received an anonymous letter. Inside was a single line:"The truth will be revealed. You, too, must face your thallium-shaped shadow."
In that moment, I couldn't breathe. It felt as if the whole world were staring at me. There was nowhere left to run. I knew—this internal trial had only just begun.
The morning light pierced the night outside the window. But my heart remained cloaked in the heavy shadow of thallium.
Perhaps I will never cleanse this guilt. But in the days I have left, I will carry this pain, trying to redeem a sliver of my humanity.
Because only by acknowledging the darkness within can I ever hope to find the light.