Lyric

The inside of the wall was always damp. Moisture slowly seeped through the wallpaper, making the air feel dense, intimate. It wasn’t raining. But that room alone remained humid, as if it existed outside the laws of weather or time

About three months after I began visiting, she started calling it the “flower room.”

“Hey, do you know that flower? Rafflesia. From Indonesia or Malaysia. It’s the biggest flower in the world.”

She was curled on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, and stretched out her arm to show me her wrist. Pale skin. Faint lines. Healed but not forgotten. Each one a thread to something silent and enormous

“It smells awful. Really awful. But some insects are only drawn to that kind of scent. Isn’t it weird?”

She laughed. A quiet, breathy sound. I couldn’t tell if it was joy or mockery. I didn’t care. Her laughter slid under my skin like heat

We met in an anonymous chat room. No names, no faces. She called herself “the resident on the other side of the wall.” At first, we just exchanged words. Then one night, she posted a photo that lodged itself somewhere deep inside me

A white room. A low ceiling. And a grotesquely beautiful, dark red flower blooming like flesh

The Rafflesia in her room

That image did something to me. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I had to see it. Her. That room. I thought it might disgust me. But instead, the moment I stepped in, the thick, sweet rot in the air made something tighten in my chest — in my throat. Something closer to hunger

She didn’t push me away. She just let me sit near her, in the silence. The TV was on, but always muted. She said the sound got in the way of her thoughts

She called her wrist her “pride.”

“Some people can only feel things through this,” she said, eyes tracing the scars with a gaze that felt almost maternal

Sometimes her words made sense. Other times, they drifted off like smoke. And somehow, I craved that — the moments I didn’t understand, but still felt aroused. Not sexually. Or maybe sexually. I couldn't be sure. The boundary was too blurry in that room

One day, she said

“Want to see what’s behind the wall? Just behind the Rafflesia.”

Beyond the wall was a mirror room — same shape, same dimensions. But the girl there wasn’t her. Not quite. There was light. Dryness. Her wrist was unmarked. Her posture straighter, more alert

“Who are you?”

I barely got the words out. Her voice was clean, too clean. But her eyes — her eyes held the same loneliness. It shimmered in silence

I told her everything. About the flower room, the sticky air, the faded lines, the scent of the Rafflesia

She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled faintly

“I think I dreamed that once. It felt real. Heavy. Like I belonged there.”

When I returned, the original room was dry. The Rafflesia had shriveled into a dark, forgotten lump. The walls were plain. Ordinary

I realized then — it didn’t matter which one was “real.” They were both her. And they both needed someone to look

Now I live with this other her. The one without walls. Without wounds. But sometimes, late at night, I catch myself missing the smell. The sweat-heavy air. Her silence

And the strange desire I felt in that flower room. That sharp, inexplicable pull

Sometimes I still hear her voice:

“Isn’t it strange? Even filth can bloom into something beautiful.”

And I know — my loneliness is still trying to nest inside hers

No matter what the cost

No matter what it turns me into