At first, it just looked wrong. Too round, too wrinkled, too… organic. The more we stared at that tiny thing tangled in her hair, the more the room seemed to close in. Was it moving? Was it dead? Our jokes faded into a cold, crawling fear as we zoomed in, compared.

We sat under the harsh bathroom light, the world shrinking to a single bizarre speck caught between two fingers. That mix of disgust and dread was almost funny at first, until it wasn’t. Every possibility that crossed our minds—parasite, egg, burrowed insect—felt worse than the last. She kept asking if it was moving; I kept pretending to be sure it wasn’t.

Only after scrolling through endless photos, zooming, rotating, comparing every disturbing detail, did the truth click into place: a crushed tick, distorted by time, water, and shampoo. The relief came in a strange wave—because at least we knew—but it was laced with a lingering shiver.

How long had it been there, hidden in plain sight? That night, we checked her scalp twice, washed everything, and went to bed with the unsettling realization that sometimes the scariest things are the ones you almost don’t see.