The woman in flat 7 is thin, too thin. She definitely eats; I can tell from the loads of grocery bags she carries up the stairs every Saturday. She is a nurse. Her mouth reminds me of a peppermint, no, a candy cane. The outside is bright red like strawberries while the inside is a platinum white. Sometimes, she talks to me. I try not to talk back.

On one such occasion, she was just moving in, and I had made the mistake of taking the stairs that day. We had run straight into each other.

“Oh, hullo, sorry ‘bout that,” she started off with a thick, most likely Scottish accent, “Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’. Name’s Shannon.”

The fact that she was speaking to me was confusing, scary even. I have never been one for conversation because as a child, I was mostly mute. It carried over into adulthood where I developed crushing social anxiety. I fail to see how this is an issue, but my therapist thinks otherwise.

Introductions were generally my most hated part of meeting someone. Suprisingly, it was not the long stares that seemed to size me up like a ripe apple at the supermarket. Nor was my greatest fear the dreaded handshake that followed any meeting. I mean, come on, who likes touching dirty, germ infested hands? Practically a breeding ground for the plague, but I have said so in the past, and the person attempting the handshake immediately retracts the outstretched limb. I usually never see them again. This seems perfectly fine in my opinion.

No, my greatest enemy when meeting strangers was the introduction. To this day, I have never completed one without seizing up in fear or running away promptly. This created quite the web of gossip among the neighbors of the “Strange Man in Flat 11” who could not talk to people. Or eat mangoes but that’s a different matter altogether and much more simple in nature.

This one is complex. Why ask me my name? You don’t really want to know. Odds are, we will never see the other again. Therefore, why would I need some insignificant name to fill my consciousness? Especially that of some too thin nurse with a candy cane mouth.

Furthermore, why offer your name up like Valentine’s Day sweets? You have no idea whether or not I want to know it. You just assume. Assumptions sink ships, not loose lips. For instance, let’s say a sailor tasked with navigation assumes that the water is calm and peaceful. He returns to his hammock, expecting a quiet rest. His assumption proves incorrect after a thunderstorm crashes the ship into a rocky shore. Everyone on the boat dies. But, yes, continue to assume if you so please.

But as always, I digress. Now, I believe I was speaking about the nurse. Yes, she arrived on the landing, arms full of bags and offered an apology and her name. I did not want nor ask for either. You see my dilemma.

"It's fine, off you go, then," I attempted to hastily shrug her off, and she almost looked sad, but I don't have the smallest clue as to why.

Therefore, the following Monday when my therapist asked how my week went, I gave her a longer version of this. She claimed introductions were "simple" and "nothing to be afraid of." I find them to be just as complex to me as calculus would be to five year olds. Nonetheless, clearly, I'm dealing with ignorance, so not only will I be getting a new therapist, but I will be getting a new flat because I have no time to deal with nurses who seem to think I would be good at conversation. When I explained this to my therapist, she protested and instructed me to "face my fears" or some other stupid word of advice I could have gotten from a Tumblr self help forum.

"We can unpack that next session. Oh, wait, we can't!" I had snarked in response.

Conversations are hard, introductions are harder. I hope I never have to meet another person for as long as I live. Oh, if I could be so lucky.

I was seven years old when it happened.

I was asleep in my bed. Morning had already broken, and the sun beamed down on me from the skylight above.

To this day, I remember vividly the strange sensation I experienced just before I awoke. It was like I had fallen from my body and was plummeting down to the dark pits of the earth, and then—

SNAP.

The bungee cord, whatever was tethering my soul to my body, went taut, and I shot back up towards the little girl lying on that twin mattress.

Except, I think I picked something up on my return journey.

Perhaps it was a piece of another soul that too was wandering. It latched onto me like a leech, clinging to me as I hurtled through space.

I reconnected with my body and sat up, gasping. Opening my eyes, it was as though I had put on a pair of glasses. Everything looked different, more vibrant. I felt clean, whole, new.

I shook off the feeling and went down for breakfast.

But that leech, whatever it was, began worming its way up my spine and into my brain.

That’s when the obsession began.

Don’t get me wrong, I had always loved books. My mother is a librarian, so I grew up surrounded by them. I recall being dropped off at the library by the sitter and I would fly through the shelves, flipping through colourful pages as she finished work. But it was only after that strange morning that reading slowly became an incessant need. A hungry appetite for words.

When I was younger my parents used to read us a chapter from a book before bed. I was soon sneaking out of my room once everyone was asleep to finish the novel.

I got caught quite quickly. It became very apparent I knew what was going to happen next when I would squirm impatiently as my mother slowly read up to an exciting plot twist. I was scolded and told I was not allowed to stay up past my bedtime to read. It didn’t stop me. My mother has convinced me the reason I need glasses is from straining my eyes trying to read in the dark.

By the time I entered my teens I was reading a novel a day. My parents were concerned about my lack of a social life, but I didn’t care. I was more than content to sit in my room and escape into my fictional worlds. I convinced my parents to buy me a laptop for my thirteenth birthday. They got me a little one, perfect for toting around as I started experimenting with placing my own words on my own pages. It was an exciting time.

Eventually puberty caught up to me. I started wanting to go to parties and boys suddenly became very interesting. I accidentally stepped on my laptop and cracked the screen, something my father had warned me would happen if I kept leaving it on the floor. My reading and writing dwindled. I was told I had to decide what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, and I was pushed in the direction of math and science because I happened to be good at them. Life became busy and my desire for words got lost somewhere in the mix.

Seven years later I have graduated with a degree in engineering. Suddenly life is a lot less busy. And I can feel something stirring in my brain. I think I may have found the lost piece. Or maybe it was never lost and just quietly resting until I was ready for it again.

Now it is waking up.

I hope that soul doesn’t come back looking for it. I’ve grown quite attached to my little leech.