Days turned into weeks.
Emily's routine became my world.
Mornings:Quick pee before showering.
Afternoons:Sometimes nothing.
Evenings:The big ones.
She loved spicy food—tacos, curry, chili. Those nights were intense. Massive, soft loads that filled me to the brim, stinking up the whole bathroom. She'd fan the air, spray freshener, apologize to no one in particular.
Once, after a party, she came home drunk.
She vomited first—acidic, chunky—then diarrhea. Explosive. Watery. Endless. It splattered everywhere inside me. She laughed it off, flushed multiple times.
I learned to anticipate her moods.
When she was stressed from exams, her movements were hurried, the deposits quick and firm.When she was relaxed, slower. More voluminous.
She talked to herself sometimes. About boys. Classes. Life.
I was her silent confidant.
And slowly—horrifyingly—I adapted.
The horror faded into acceptance. This was reincarnation, after all. A new life. A new role.
One night, after a particularly large session—a massive, knobby log that took effort on her part—she lingered, staring at her phone.
"I wonder if toilets have feelings," she joked to herself, giggling."Sorry if I stink you up, buddy."
If only she knew.
In that moment, I realized something.
This was my story.
Not heroism.Not adventure.
Just quiet service.
Humble.Intimate.
I was the throne she needed. The receiver of her most private moments.
And in this bizarre afterlife…
That was enough.