Chapter One

Divide

Michael sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the half-empty cup of coffee before him. The sunlight streaming through the window painted golden streaks across the worn surface of the table, yet despite the warmth of the morning, Michael felt an inexplicable chill deep within his bones. This was not a chill attributable merely to the ambient temperature, nor even to the fatigue induced by several sleepless nights; rather, it was a cold rooted in uncertainty, a pervasive emptiness that seemed to linger at the fringes of his consciousness like an unwelcome companion. This sensation was not simply transient; it had been there for as long as he could remember, albeit growing increasingly profound in recent weeks, creeping insidiously into every corner of his mind and leaving him feeling disjointed and disconnected from the world around him.

He frowned as he lifted the mug to his lips, discovering that the coffee was tepid. He had no recollection of how long he had been sitting there, nor of the coffee growing cold. Time seemed to slip through his fingers like sand, the minutes blending seamlessly into hours without any tangible boundary between them. These small lapses were beginning to accumulate, each one resembling a fragment of a larger puzzle whose image remained stubbornly unclear. There were gaps—troubling voids in his memory that had become alarmingly frequent. He would find himself in the midst of a mundane task—washing dishes, folding laundry—only to blink and discover himself in a different room, engaged in something entirely unrelated. On some level, it was as though another force had assumed control, guiding his actions without his conscious awareness.

Michael shook his head as though to dispel these uneasy thoughts. It wasn’t precisely disorientation that plagued him; the disorientation was a secondary symptom, an aftereffect that followed the realization of lost time. The sensation was akin to trying to retain the memory of a dream, only for it to slip through the confines of his mind. He had wanted to believe it was merely stress—after all, his work had been especially demanding lately, fraught with deadlines and exacerbated by an overbearing supervisor who seemed singularly focused on undermining him. Perhaps his mind was simply struggling to cope with the accumulation of pressure.

Yet, the unease persisted. The gaps in his memory could not be solely attributed to stress. Stress did not account for the missing hours, nor did it explain the way in which his belongings seemed to be subtly displaced—objects that he knew he had left untouched were inexplicably moved or rearranged. He would return home to find his keys inexplicably placed in the refrigerator, or his shoes set on the bathroom counter, or important documents strewn across the kitchen table, as though someone had rifled through them in haste. He had attempted to ignore these anomalies, to rationalize them away, even jesting to himself that perhaps his apartment was haunted by some mischievous specter who took delight in these petty rearrangements. But as these occurrences grew more frequent and pronounced, his attempts at humor began to falter, and the reality of his situation became increasingly difficult to dismiss.

One evening, Michael returned home to find his apartment door ajar. He distinctly remembered locking it before leaving for work; he was meticulous in his routine, always giving the knob a firm twist to confirm the lock was secure. And yet, the door had swung open at the merest touch, and the lights inside were already on. Nothing was missing or out of place, but an unsettling prickle of anxiety settled in his stomach, leaving him with the distinct impression of being an intruder in his own space. He had stood frozen in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, his eyes scanning the apartment, waiting for some rational explanation to present itself, but there was only silence—thick, heavy silence—and the lingering, inescapable feeling that something was profoundly amiss.

Then there were the messages on his phone. He would scroll through his text conversations and find messages he had no recollection of sending—often to numbers that were unfamiliar. The content of the messages was cryptic, consisting of brief, contextless phrases like “It’s done” or “I won’t be there again.” He had attempted to call one of the numbers, but it had gone straight to voicemail, the voice on the recording unfamiliar—a woman, her tone clipped and impatient, as if expecting to be recognized. These messages left Michael profoundly unsettled, as if he were a stranger to his own actions. He would sit staring at his phone for hours, attempting to piece together the significance of these messages, but each attempt only seemed to raise more questions, none of which he could answer.

Michael sighed, running his hand through his hair, the strands slipping through his fingers like silk. A few days prior, he had tried to confide in his friend Rob, hoping that vocalizing his concerns might lend them some rationality, might somehow make them less surreal. Rob had listened, a deepening frown etched across his face, before shrugging in that nonchalant way of his.

“Maybe you’re just tired, man,” Rob had suggested. “Or maybe you’re sleepwalking? I’ve heard that stress can do strange things to people.”

Michael had nodded, though he felt unconvinced. Sleepwalking might account for some of his symptoms, but it could not explain the texts—nor could it account for the unsettling remarks made by others. His coworker Jenna had mentioned, in passing, that she had seen him at the park one afternoon. She had waved at him, she said, but he hadn’t waved back. Michael had no memory of being at the park, especially not during work hours. He had laughed it off, assuring Jenna she must have mistaken someone else for him, but inwardly, the remark gnawed at him, feeding the growing sense of dread that seemed to permeate his life.

And then there were the bruises. He had awoken one morning to find a dark purple bruise on his forearm, as though someone had gripped him forcefully. He had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the mark, probing his mind for any recollection of how it had come to be, but his thoughts yielded nothing but empty silence. He pressed his fingers to the bruise, feeling the dull ache beneath his skin—a physical manifestation of something that had occurred beyond his awareness. And it wasn’t just one bruise. There were others, faint imprints on his ribs, on his legs—each one a mystery, each one further alienating him from his own body.

Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center himself. He could not afford to let himself unravel; that was what Rob had said. “You can’t let yourself spiral, Mike. You have to keep it together.” But how could he maintain his composure when he felt as though he were being dismantled, piece by piece? There were parts of him that seemed inaccessible, parts that moved and acted independently of his conscious will, as though he were a marionette manipulated by unseen strings. He tried to maintain a facade of control, to convince himself that everything was fine, but the cracks in his psyche were widening, and with each passing day, he felt himself slipping further.

The buzzing of his phone interrupted his thoughts. Michael opened his eyes, blinking against the light as he reached for the device. The screen displayed a new message from Jenna.

“Hey, are you still coming tonight?”

Michael frowned, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the screen. Coming tonight? He scrolled through the previous messages, hoping to jog his memory, but there was nothing that referenced any plans for the evening. His heart began to pound as he typed a quick response.

“Coming where?”

The reply came almost immediately. “The bar! You said you’d come out with us tonight. Don’t tell me you’re bailing.”

Michael stared at the message; his mind blank. He had no memory of agreeing to go out, no recollection of speaking to Jenna after work the previous day. He wanted to reply, to explain that there must be some mistake, but something held him back—some quiet, insistent voice that told him he needed to go, that perhaps being around people might ground him, might bring him some semblance of normalcy. Instead, he typed, “Of course. I’ll be there.”

He set the phone down, his hands trembling slightly. He had to go. He had to see if being around others—immersing himself in a familiar environment—might help anchor him, might help him reclaim the parts of himself that felt lost and adrift.

When Michael arrived at the bar, it was crowded, the atmosphere heavy with laughter and the clinking of glasses, the air thick with the scent of beer and fried food. He spotted Jenna near the back, waving him over with a broad smile. There were others from the office as well—familiar faces, though their names seemed to elude him in that moment. Michael forced a smile, weaving his way through the crowd until he reached the table.

“There you are!” Jenna greeted, her smile warm. She nudged a drink toward him, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. “I got you a whiskey sour. You like those, right?”

Michael hesitated before nodding, picking up the glass. He couldn’t remember ever telling Jenna what he liked to drink, but a whiskey sour seemed fitting somehow, as though it were something he might enjoy. He took a sip, feeling the alcohol burn its way down his throat, and tried to immerse himself in the conversation around him. He laughed when the others laughed, nodded when they spoke, but all the while, he felt a profound sense of detachment, as if he were watching himself from a distance, an observer rather than a participant. The laughter echoed hollowly in his ears, the voices seeming to drift in and out as though carried on a breeze.

At one point, Jenna leaned closer, her voice soft with concern. “Are you okay, Mike? You seem a little… off tonight.”

Michael forced another smile, though it felt strained. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Jenna studied him for a moment, her expression softening. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

Michael nodded, grateful for her concern, though it only seemed to amplify the emptiness within him. He wanted to tell her, to tell someone, that he didn’t feel like himself—that he felt as though he were slowly unraveling, slipping away piece by piece. But how could he articulate something he didn’t fully understand? How could he explain that he was afraid—terrified—of his own mind? The words felt like a lead weight lodged in his chest, immovable and impossible to express.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Michael laughed, he smiled, he drank, but none of it felt real. It was as though he were donning a carefully constructed mask, concealing the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. Eventually, he made his excuses to leave early, claiming an early morning meeting. Jenna hugged him, her arms warm and comforting around his shoulders. He returned the embrace, but it felt hollow, his thoughts miles away, lost in the fog that seemed to have settled permanently in his mind.

Upon returning home, Michael locked the door behind him, checking it twice before setting his keys on the counter. The apartment was quiet, the silence pressing in on him like a physical weight. He walked to the bathroom, flicking on the light, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were shadowed, the skin beneath them darkened with fatigue. He leaned closer, his breath misting the glass, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—someone—move behind him.

Michael spun around, his heart leaping into his throat, but there was nothing there. The bathroom was empty, the door slightly ajar, the hallway beyond dark. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, and frowned. He felt as though he were looking at a stranger—someone who wore his face but was not him. He reached out, touching the cool surface of the glass with his fingertips, and closed his eyes.

“Get it together, Mike,” he whispered to himself. “You’re just tired. You just need sleep.”

But even as he spoke, he knew the words were hollow. Deep down, Michael knew there was something more—something lurking just beneath the surface, beyond his reach. It was like standing on the precipice of a great abyss, staring into the darkness, knowing that something waited there for him—something he could not see but could feel in the very marrow of his bones.

He frowned, lifting the mug to his lips, but the coffee was tepid. He didn’t remember it getting cold, nor did he remember how long he’d been sitting there. Time seemed to slip through his fingers like sand, the minutes blending into hours without him noticing. It was these small moments that were beginning to add up, each one like a single piece of a larger puzzle that refused to come together. There were gaps—holes in his memory that seemed to appear more frequently lately. He’d find himself in the middle of a task—a mundane one, like washing dishes or folding laundry—only to blink and realize he was in a different room, doing something else entirely. Sometimes, it felt as though someone else had taken control, steering his body without his consent.

Michael shook his head, trying to dispel the uneasy thoughts. It wasn’t that he felt disoriented exactly. The disorientation came later, after the realization that he’d lost time. It was more a feeling of slipping, like when he’d try to grasp the memory of a dream and find it disintegrating in his hands. He wanted to believe it was just stress. After all, work had been demanding lately, and he’d been dealing with the added pressure of deadlines and an overbearing boss who seemed to find fault in everything he did. Maybe it was all just a symptom of that—his mind’s way of coping with the overwhelming tension.

But it was hard to shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Stress didn’t explain the hours that seemed to vanish, or the way he’d find things—things he knew he hadn’t touched—moved or rearranged. He’d come home to find his keys in the fridge, his shoes in the bathroom, or important documents left out on the kitchen counter, pages disheveled as though someone had rifled through them. He had tried to ignore it, to push away the creeping unease. He’d even joked to himself that maybe his apartment was haunted, that some playful ghost was moving his keys and putting his shoes on the wrong shelf. But it was hard to keep joking when the inconsistencies grew more pronounced, when they began to chip away at his sense of reality.

There was the night he came home and found the door to his apartment unlocked. He remembered locking it before he left for work—he was sure of it. Michael was meticulous about checking the lock, always giving the knob a firm twist to be certain. And yet, that night, the door had swung open with barely a push, and the lights were on inside. Nothing was missing, nothing out of place, and yet a prickling unease had settled in his stomach, making him feel like an intruder in his own home. He’d stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, just staring at the scene, waiting for something to leap out at him, for some explanation to present itself. But there was nothing, just the echoing silence and the sensation that something was profoundly wrong.

Then there were the messages. He’d scroll through his phone and find texts he didn’t remember sending—sometimes to numbers he didn’t recognize. They were cryptic, brief phrases that didn’t make sense to him, like “It’s done” or “I won’t be there again.” When he’d tried calling one of the numbers, it had gone straight to voicemail, and the voice on the recording was unfamiliar. It was a woman, her tone impatient, as though she expected someone to know who she was. The messages left him feeling unsettled, as though he were a stranger to his own life, his own actions. He’d stared at his phone for hours, trying to piece together the meaning behind those words, but they only left him with more questions, each one heavier than the last.

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the strands slip between his fingers. He had tried talking to his friend, Rob, about it a few days ago, hoping that saying it out loud might make it seem less strange, might somehow rationalize what was happening. Rob had listened, a frown deepening on his face as Michael spoke, and then he’d shrugged.

“Maybe you’re just tired, man,” Rob had said. “Or maybe you’re sleepwalking? I heard stress can do weird things to people.”

Michael had nodded, even though he didn’t feel entirely convinced. Sleepwalking didn’t account for the texts, nor did it explain the things people said to him—offhand comments that made his stomach twist with a sense of wrongness. The other day, his coworker, Jenna, had mentioned how she’d seen him at the park. She’d waved, she said, but he hadn’t waved back. Michael had no recollection of going to the park, and certainly not during work hours. He’d laughed it off, telling Jenna she must have seen someone else, but the unease gnawed at him, a slow burn of dread that refused to leave.

And then there were the bruises. He’d woken up one morning to find a dark purple bruise on his forearm, as though someone had gripped him too tightly. He’d stared at it in the bathroom mirror, trying to remember where it could have come from, but his mind was blank. He had pressed his fingers against it, feeling the soreness bloom beneath his skin, a reminder that something had happened—something he couldn’t recall. It wasn’t the only bruise either. There were others—faint marks on his ribs, his legs—each one a mystery that left him feeling more disconnected from himself.

Michael closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t let himself spiral. That was what Rob had said. “You can’t let yourself spiral, Mike. You’ve got to keep it together.” But how was he supposed to keep it together when he felt like he was falling apart, piece by piece? He felt like there were parts of him he couldn’t access, parts that moved and acted without his knowledge, like a puppet with strings pulled by an unseen hand. He tried to maintain control, tried to convince himself that everything was fine, but the cracks were starting to show, and he could feel himself slipping further with each passing day.

The sound of his phone buzzing pulled him from his thoughts. Michael opened his eyes, blinking against the light as he reached for the device. The screen displayed a message from Jenna.

“Hey, are you still coming tonight?”

Michael frowned, his fingers hovering over the screen. Coming tonight? He scrolled through the previous messages, trying to jog his memory, but there was nothing that mentioned any plans for the evening. He typed back a quick response, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Coming where?”

The reply came almost immediately. “The bar! You said you’d come out with us tonight. Don’t tell me you’re bailing.”

Michael stared at the message, his mind blank. He didn’t remember agreeing to go out. In fact, he didn’t remember even talking to Jenna after work yesterday. He wanted to text back, to tell her there must be some mistake, but something held him back. Instead, he typed, “Of course. I’ll be there.”

He set the phone down, his hands trembling slightly. He had to go. He had to see if being around people—being in a familiar setting—might bring some sense of normalcy back. Maybe it would help him piece together the parts that felt lost, bring him back to himself. Maybe being surrounded by his friends would help anchor him, remind him of who he was—or who he was supposed to be.

The bar was crowded when Michael arrived. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, and the scent of beer and fried food hung thickly, clinging to the dim lighting. He spotted Jenna near the back, waving him over with a smile. There were a few others from the office, their faces familiar but their names slipping from his memory in that moment. Michael forced a smile, weaving his way through the crowd until he reached the table.

“There you are!” Jenna said, her smile bright. She nudged a drink toward him, the amber liquid sloshing slightly in the glass. “I got you a whiskey sour. You like those, right?”

Michael hesitated, then nodded, picking up the glass. He didn’t remember telling Jenna what he liked, but it seemed like the kind of drink he’d enjoy. He took a sip, the burn of the alcohol warming his throat, and tried to settle into the conversation around him. He laughed when everyone else laughed, nodded when they spoke, but the entire time he felt detached, like he was watching himself from a distance, a spectator to his own life. The laughter felt hollow, the conversations distant, as though they were happening in another room.

At some point, Jenna leaned closer, her voice softening as she spoke. “Are you okay, Mike? You seem a little… off tonight.”

Michael forced another smile, though it felt like a grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Jenna studied him for a moment, then nodded, her expression softening. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

He nodded, grateful for her concern, but it only made the emptiness inside him feel more pronounced. He wanted to tell her, to tell someone, that he didn’t feel like himself—that he felt like he was losing himself, slipping away bit by bit. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. How could he explain something he didn’t even understand? How could he tell someone that he was afraid of his own mind? The words were trapped inside him, heavy and immovable, a burden he didn’t know how to share.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Michael smiled, he laughed, he drank, but none of it felt real. It was as though he was wearing a mask, a carefully constructed facade to hide the turmoil beneath. He made excuses to leave early, claiming he had an early morning meeting, and Jenna had hugged him, her arms warm around his shoulders. He’d hugged her back, but the gesture felt hollow, his thoughts miles away, lost in the fog that seemed to settle in his mind more and more often.

When Michael got home, he locked the door behind him, checking it twice before setting his keys on the counter. The apartment was quiet, the silence pressing in on him like a weight. He walked to the bathroom, flicking on the light, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked tired, the skin beneath them darkened with shadows. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—someone—move behind him.

Michael spun around, his heart leaping into his throat, but there was nothing there. The bathroom was empty, the door half-closed, and the hallway beyond dark. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, and he frowned. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger, someone who wore his face but wasn’t him. He touched the glass, his fingertips pressing against the cool surface, and closed his eyes.

“Get it together, Mike,” he whispered to himself. “You’re just tired. You just need sleep.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. Deep down, Michael knew there was something more, something lurking beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite reach. He just didn’t know what it was, or how to find it. It was like standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into the dark unknown, knowing that something was waiting for him, something he couldn’t see but could feel in the marrow of his bones.

The next morning, Michael woke up feeling disoriented. The sunlight filtering through the curtains seemed too bright, the air too still. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind, and frowned when he noticed the clothes scattered across the floor. He didn’t remember changing out of his clothes when he got home, let alone tossing them carelessly around the room. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his chest.

He made his way to the kitchen, pausing when he noticed a piece of paper on the table. It was a note, the handwriting unfamiliar, the letters sharp and jagged. Michael picked it up, his heart pounding in his ears as he read the words.

“Stay away from David.”

Michael’s hands trembled, the note slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the floor. David? Who was David? The name tugged at something in his mind, a faint whisper that he couldn’t quite grasp. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. This was getting out of hand. He needed to figure out what was happening to him—he needed answers.

He spent the rest of the day in a daze, his thoughts circling around the note, the missing hours, the strange bruises that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He tried to focus on work, but his mind kept drifting, the words on the screen blurring together until they were nothing more than meaningless shapes. His boss had called him into her office at one point, her voice sharp as she questioned his performance, but Michael had barely heard her. He’d nodded, apologized, and left, his thoughts elsewhere, lost in the fog of confusion that seemed to grow thicker with each passing hour.

That evening, Michael found himself at the park. He didn’t remember deciding to come here, didn’t remember the walk from his apartment, but here he was, standing on the path that wound through the trees. The air was cool, the scent of damp earth and leaves surrounding him, and for a moment, Michael felt a strange sense of calm. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and let the quiet wash over him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a man standing a few feet away, his back to Michael. Something about the man seemed familiar, the slope of his shoulders, the way he held himself. Michael took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

“David?” he called, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

The man turned, his eyes widening in surprise as they met Michael’s. Michael felt a jolt of recognition, though he couldn’t place where he knew the man from. David took a step toward him, his expression a mix of confusion and concern.

“Alex?” David said, his voice soft, almost disbelieving.

Michael froze, the name echoing in his mind. Alex. It felt familiar, like a word he’d known once but forgotten, a part of himself that had been lost. He shook his head, taking a step back, his heart pounding in his chest.

“No, I—I’m not…” Michael stammered, his thoughts a tangled mess. He turned, his feet moving before his mind could catch up, and he ran. He ran until his lungs burned, until the world around him was a blur of color and sound. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t know what he was running from, but he couldn’t stop. He had to get away, had to escape the feeling that something was unraveling inside him, that his sense of self was slipping through his fingers like water.

When Michael finally stopped, he found himself back at his apartment, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the key. He pushed the door open, slamming it shut behind him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He leaned against the door, his eyes closing as he tried to steady himself.

“Who are you?” he whispered; his voice barely audible. “Who am I?”

The silence of the apartment offered no answers, only the hollow echo of his own voice. Michael slid down to the floor, his head resting against the door, and closed his eyes. He felt lost, adrift in a sea of confusion and fear, and he didn’t know how to find his way back. All he knew was that something was wrong, and he was running out of time to figure it out.

He frowned, lifting the mug to his lips. The coffee was tepid. He didn’t remember it getting cold, nor did he remember how long he’d been sitting there. It was these small moments that were beginning to add up, each one like a single piece of a larger puzzle that refused to come together. There were gaps, holes in his memory that seemed to appear more frequently lately. He’d find himself in the middle of a task—a mundane one, like washing dishes or folding laundry—only to blink and realize he was in a different room, doing something else entirely.

It wasn’t that Michael felt disoriented exactly. The disorientation came later, after the realization that he’d lost time. It was more a feeling of slipping, like when he’d try to grasp the memory of a dream and find it disintegrating in his hands. He wanted to believe it was stress. After all, work had been demanding lately, and he’d been dealing with the added pressure of deadlines and an overbearing boss who seemed to find fault in everything he did.

But it was hard to shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Stress didn’t explain the hours that seemed to vanish, or the way he’d find things—things he knew he hadn’t touched—moved or rearranged. He had tried to ignore it, to push away the creeping unease. He’d even joked to himself that maybe his apartment was haunted, that some playful ghost was moving his keys and putting his shoes on the wrong shelf. But it was hard to keep joking when the inconsistencies grew more pronounced.

There was the night he came home and found the door to his apartment unlocked. He remembered locking it before he left for work—he was sure of it. Michael was meticulous about checking the lock, always giving the knob a firm twist to be certain. And yet, that night, the door had swung open with barely a push, and the lights were on inside. Nothing was missing, nothing out of place, and yet a prickling unease had settled in his stomach, making him feel like an intruder in his own home.

Then there were the messages. He’d scroll through his phone and find texts he didn’t remember sending—sometimes to numbers he didn’t recognize. They were cryptic, brief phrases that didn’t make sense to him, like “It’s done” or “I won’t be there again.” When he’d tried calling one of the numbers, it had gone straight to voicemail, and the voice on the recording was unfamiliar. It was a woman, her tone impatient, as though she expected someone to know who she was.

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the strands slip between his fingers. He had tried talking to his friend, Rob, about it a few days ago, hoping that saying it out loud might make it seem less strange, might somehow rationalize what was happening. Rob had listened, a frown deepening on his face as Michael spoke, and then he’d shrugged.

“Maybe you’re just tired, man,” Rob had said. “Or maybe you’re sleepwalking? I heard stress can do weird things to people.”

Michael had nodded, even though he didn’t feel entirely convinced. Sleepwalking didn’t account for the texts, nor did it explain the things people said to him—offhand comments that made his stomach twist with a sense of wrongness. The other day, his coworker, Jenna, had mentioned how she’d seen him at the park. She’d waved, she said, but he hadn’t waved back. Michael had no recollection of going to the park, and certainly not during work hours. He’d laughed it off, telling Jenna she must have seen someone else, but the unease gnawed at him.

And then there were the bruises. He’d woken up one morning to find a dark purple bruise on his forearm, as though someone had gripped him too tightly. He’d stared at it in the bathroom mirror, trying to remember where it could have come from, but his mind was blank. He had pressed his fingers against it, feeling the soreness bloom beneath his skin, a reminder that something had happened—something he couldn’t recall.

Michael closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t let himself spiral. That was what Rob had said. “You can’t let yourself spiral, Mike. You’ve got to keep it together.” But how was he supposed to keep it together when he felt like he was falling apart, piece by piece? He felt like there were parts of him he couldn’t access, parts that moved and acted without his knowledge, like a puppet with strings pulled by an unseen hand.

The sound of his phone buzzing pulled him from his thoughts. Michael opened his eyes, blinking against the light as he reached for the device. The screen displayed a message from Jenna.

“Hey, are you still coming tonight?”

Michael frowned, his fingers hovering over the screen. Coming tonight? He scrolled through the previous messages, trying to jog his memory, but there was nothing that mentioned any plans for the evening. He typed back a quick response, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Coming where?”

The reply came almost immediately. “The bar! You said you’d come out with us tonight. Don’t tell me you’re bailing.”

Michael stared at the message; his mind blank. He didn’t remember agreeing to go out. In fact, he didn’t remember even talking to Jenna after work yesterday. He wanted to text back, to tell her there must be some mistake, but something held him back. Instead, he typed, “Of course. I’ll be there.”

He set the phone down, his hands trembling slightly. He had to go. He had to see if being around people—being in a familiar setting—might bring some sense of normalcy back. Maybe it would help him piece together the parts that felt lost, bring him back to himself.

The bar was crowded when Michael arrived. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, and the scent of beer and fried food hung thickly, clinging to the dim lighting. He spotted Jenna near the back, waving him over with a smile. There were a few others from the office, their faces familiar but their names slipping from his memory in that moment. Michael forced a smile, weaving his way through the crowd until he reached the table.

“There you are!” Jenna said, her smile bright. She nudged a drink toward him, the amber liquid sloshing slightly in the glass. “I got you a whiskey sour. You like those, right?”

Michael hesitated, then nodded, picking up the glass. He didn’t remember telling Jenna what he liked, but it seemed like the kind of drink he’d enjoy. He took a sip, the burn of the alcohol warming his throat, and tried to settle into the conversation around him. He laughed when everyone else laughed, nodded when they spoke, but the entire time he felt detached, like he was watching himself from a distance.

At some point, Jenna leaned closer, her voice softening as she spoke. “Are you okay, Mike? You seem a little… off tonight.”

Michael forced another smile, though it felt like a grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Jenna studied him for a moment, then nodded, her expression softening. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

He nodded, grateful for her concern, but it only made the emptiness inside him feel more pronounced. He wanted to tell her, to tell someone, that he didn’t feel like himself—that he felt like he was losing himself, slipping away bit by bit. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. How could he explain something he didn’t even understand? How could he tell someone that he was afraid of his own mind?

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Michael smiled, he laughed, he drank, but none of it felt real. It was as though he was wearing a mask, a carefully constructed facade to hide the turmoil beneath. He made excuses to leave early, claiming he had an early morning meeting, and Jenna had hugged him, her arms warm around his shoulders. He’d hugged her back, but the gesture felt hollow, his thoughts miles away.

When Michael got home, he locked the door behind him, checking it twice before setting his keys on the counter. The apartment was quiet, the silence pressing in on him like a weight. He walked to the bathroom, flicking on the light, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked tired, the skin beneath them darkened with shadows. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—someone—move behind him.

Michael spun around, his heart leaping into his throat, but there was nothing there. The bathroom was empty, the door half-closed, and the hallway beyond dark. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, and he frowned. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger, someone who wore his face but wasn’t him. He touched the glass, his fingertips pressing against the cool surface, and closed his eyes.

“Get it together, Mike,” he whispered to himself. “You’re just tired. You just need sleep.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. Deep down, Michael knew there was something more, something lurking beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite reach. He just didn’t know what it was, or how to find it.

The next morning, Michael woke up feeling disoriented. The sunlight filtering through the curtains seemed too bright, the air too still. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind, and frowned when he noticed the clothes scattered across the floor. He didn’t remember changing out of his clothes when he got home, let alone tossing them carelessly around the room. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his chest.

He made his way to the kitchen, pausing when he noticed a piece of paper on the table. It was a note, the handwriting unfamiliar, the letters sharp and jagged. Michael picked it up, his heart pounding in his ears as he read the words.

“Stay away from David.”

Michael’s hands trembled, the note slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the floor. David? Who was David? The name tugged at something in his mind, a faint whisper that he couldn’t quite grasp. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. This was getting out of hand. He needed to figure out what was happening to him—he needed answers.

He spent the rest of the day in a daze, his thoughts circling around the note, the missing hours, the strange bruises that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He tried to focus on work, but his mind kept drifting, the words on the screen blurring together until they were nothing more than meaningless shapes. His boss had called him into her office at one point, her voice sharp as she questioned his performance, but Michael had barely heard her. He’d nodded, apologized, and left, his thoughts elsewhere.

That evening, Michael found himself at the park. He didn’t remember deciding to come here, didn’t remember the walk from his apartment, but here he was, standing on the path that wound through the trees. The air was cool, the scent of damp earth and leaves surrounding him, and for a moment, Michael felt a strange sense of calm. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and let the quiet wash over him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a man standing a few feet away, his back to Michael. Something about the man seemed familiar, the slope of his shoulders, the way he held himself. Michael took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

“David?” he called, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

The man turned, his eyes widening in surprise as they met Michael’s. Michael felt a jolt of recognition, though he couldn’t place where he knew the man from. David took a step toward him, his expression a mix of confusion and concern.

“Alex?” David said, his voice soft, almost disbelieving.

Michael froze at the sound of the name. Alex? No one had called him that in years. It was a name tied to a life he thought he had left behind, a person he no longer was—or at least had tried not to be. The name cut through the air like a whisper of a past he’d buried deep, and hearing it again made his pulse race.

Michael’s throat tightened. "No... I’m not—" he began, but the words felt hollow, his voice wavering as if even he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

David’s expression softened, his brow furrowing with concern. “It’s you, isn’t it?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all this time.”

Michael shook his head, backing away instinctively. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

But David didn’t stop. “I don’t. I know it’s you, Alex. You… you disappeared. Everyone thought—” David swallowed, struggling with the weight of what he was about to say. “I thought you were dead.”

The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Michael’s mind raced. How could this man, this stranger who seemed so familiar, know a version of him that no longer existed? How could he know Alex?

“I’m not him,” Michael said, more firmly this time, though his hands were trembling. He was Michael now, the name he’d chosen for this new life. The life without the past following him.

David stopped, his eyes scanning Michael’s face. “You can say whatever you want, but I know you. You can’t run from who you are forever.”

A surge of anger and fear welled up inside Michael. “You don’t know me,” he spat. “You don’t know anything about me.”

David’s gaze softened. “I do. I know enough.” He paused, his voice quieter now, laced with something like empathy. “Whatever you’re running from… it doesn’t have to follow you anymore.”

Michael clenched his fists, taking a step back. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you.”

David exhaled, his eyes still holding that unshakable certainty. “You don’t have to admit it now. But one day, you’ll have to face it, Alex. The past never stays buried.”

With that, David turned and walked away, leaving Michael standing in the dim light of the alley, heart pounding, breath ragged. He stood there, unmoving, as the world seemed to close in around him, the name echoing in his mind.

Alex.

The past wasn’t done with him yet.