It crawled, likely from the bowels, by way of the baggage we drudge in transition. Initially would only exist in an intense adhesive capacity, close to the chest, with a deep-seeded intent to be seen. That's no matter of conscious or sub conscious motivations just one of those things that just are. Days turn to years to see the pattern reverse, returning back to your first last day. Stumbling around everything familiar until the space is nothing but old clothes, shoes & artifacts that remind you of their season, circling for crumbs discarded in careless indulgence. What you thought was destined to remain buried and faceless tip-toes onto the stage where you perform your daily routine. It creeps to where you keep your company threatening to waltz with you in front of all your friends. Finds where you dream and postures to plague the very place you design tomorrows with the one you love. Lucky to find it and proceed with meticulous care to expire an easily compounded pest of an issue you desperately want t keep private. So you pick up a house shoe and try to squash the water-bug on the wall over your headboard with no light, trying hard not to wake and alarm your fiance' who's sleeping.
That's her one phobia.