Earlier today, I came across this in my girlfriend’s bathroom.

I kept circling it, heart racing, trying to find a logical explanation that didn’t involve calling pest control—or a biohazard team. It looked fragile but sinister, with darker patches that made it seem like it was rotting. I didn’t want to touch it, but leaving it there felt worse, like inviting something unknown to stay. Finally, armed with only a wad of tissue, I reached out and pressed.

It didn’t squirm. It didn’t resist. It simply collapsed, soft and harmless. That tiny moment of contact snapped everything into focus: the color, the texture, the fibrous interior. Then I remembered—a careless snack, a piece dropped and forgotten. In the warm, damp air, it had transformed into something grotesque. It wasn’t a parasite, or mold, or anything dangerous. It was just a piece of banana, warped by humidity… and my imagination.