"Until you become conscious of what you carry in your unconscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate."
—Carl Gustav Jung
Sure, Jung.
But what happens when you are the unconscious?
Believe me, it's not as fun as it sounds.
…
I was born on a rainy afternoon, right after a fight.
Ailín was crying in her room, curled up in bed, convinced her mother didn't understand her.
And there, between sobs and jumbled thoughts, I appeared: a small, trembling shadow, still nameless—made of pain, anger, and the desperate desire to hide.
I don't really know how to explain it. I didn't decide to be born.
I just… existed.
Like when you turn on a light in a dark room and realize the dust was there all along.
I was that dust. Only prettier.
…
"We don't need her," I said, testing my voice for the first time.
Ailín raised her head, startled.
"Who… said that?"
"I did," I replied, floating in front of her.
Well, floating is a nice way of saying walking through the air without bones.
"Your… emotional support. Yes, that."
She looked at me with red eyes and a swollen nose.
"Emotional support?" she repeated, hesitating.
"Exactly. I'm here to keep you from hurting yourself again."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"Easy. By reminding you that the world is a dangerous place and that everything will probably go wrong."
"That doesn't sound very supportive…"
"Of course it does. Realistic support."
She sighed, exhausted, and sank back into the sheets.
She didn't kick me out. That was my first victory.
…
A few minutes later, her grandmother came in with a cup of tea.
The steam smelled of jasmine and patience.
"Here, sweetie. Jasmine calms the soul," she said softly, and then, as if speaking to me too, added:
"Darkness only has power if you fear it. Name it, and you'll see it's not as big as you think."
Ailín listened in silence.
I was mildly offended.
Darkness without power?
What spiritual disrespect.
…
Over time, Ailín gave me a name: Oscurita.
And although it sounded adorable, make no mistake—
I was her chaos with a bow.
I appeared when she was nervous, when she doubted herself, when she felt she wasn't good enough.
And believe me, those moments were my fuel.
But Ailín grew up.
And like any stubborn human, she began to question my authority.
Especially when she started college.
…
It was her first day of volleyball tryouts.
The sun was blinding, and her legs were shaking more than her hands.
I, of course, was in my usual spot—glued to her left shoulder.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked as she adjusted her knee pads.
"Look at you. You can barely coordinate your thoughts, and now you expect to coordinate your arms?"
"Shut up," she muttered under her breath, not looking at me.
"I can't. I'm literally your thoughts."
She took a deep breath, ignoring me.
There was something different in her gaze—
a calmness I didn't like at all.
Then, just before the tryouts began, she paused for a second and closed her eyes.
And I heard that voice.
Her grandmother. Again.
"Yes, you are enough."
And I… felt it.
As if someone had turned down my volume.
As if the light itself was pushing me back.
Me, silenced by a corny phrase.
How humiliating.
Ailín smiled.
And for the first time, she left me behind.
…
It didn't last long.
The next day, during Communication Theory class, everything went back to normal.
The teacher threw a question to the class.
Ailín knew the answer. I knew because her heart started beating like a drum.
Her hand went up—
and that's where I came in.
"What if you get it wrong?" I whispered softly. "Everyone will be looking at you.
And if you get it right, they'll say you're a know-it-all. Better let someone else answer."
Her hand went down before anyone noticed.
Ah, the sweet taste of restored control.
The teacher called on another student.
Everyone nodded.
And Ailín looked down, pretending to write something in her notebook.
I watched her silently.
I didn't laugh.
For some reason, I couldn't.
Because when I saw her shrink like that…
something inside me shrank too.
…
That afternoon, she walked alone down the university hallway, her bag slung over her shoulder, her gaze distant.
I followed beside her, as always.
But this time, I said nothing.
Until she spoke.
"I'm not going to keep quiet anymore," she said softly.
"Uh-huh, sure. Say it louder so your insecurities can hear you."
"I'm not going to let you win again."
"Win? This isn't a competition, human. It's self-protection."
"No, Dark One. It's fear."
And that's when she disarmed me.
So simple. So direct.
Me, the master shadow of sarcasm—speechless.
…
That night, I saw her writing in her notebook.
She looked calm. The lamp lit her face, and her hands moved slowly, carefully.
I approached her.
"What are you writing?" I asked, pretending not to care.
"A promise," she said without looking at me. "Tomorrow I'm going to raise my hand.
Even if you tremble with me."
I stood still.
I didn't know whether to feel pride or fear.
So I played it cool.
"If you stumble, I'll laugh," I said.
She smiled.
"Deal."
And then, without anyone seeing, I sat down beside her—right under the light.
Because even though I am a shadow, that night,
I didn't want to hide.
…
They say darkness only has power if you fear it.
But I believe darkness can also learn to love the light…
if the light dares not to run away from it.