If there was one thing Salem Grey hated more than Mondays, it was—actually, no, there was nothing he hated more than Mondays.
Mondays were the universal punchline to a joke no one found funny. So when he woke up one Sunday morning and realized that Monday had simply… vanished, he almost thought, for one shining moment, that the universe had finally done something right.
Almost.
The first clue was his phone. He rolled over, groggy as usual, and squinted at the screen. The lock screen clearly said Tuesday.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Checked again. Still Tuesday.
He frowned. "What the hell?" he mumbled, voice still hoarse from sleep. He scrolled through his messages, his calendar, the weather app—anything that could confirm the date.
It was Tuesday.
But he had no memory of Monday.
---
At first, Salem thought he must have overslept. Maybe he had one of those deep, dreamless sleeps that knocked him out for an entire day. It had happened before—once, during final exams in college. But this felt different. The kind of different that gnaws at the back of your mind and whispers that something is very, very wrong.
His phone showed that he'd ordered food the night before. A cheeseburger, fries, extra pickles—exactly the kind of comfort food he would've chosen on a typical Monday night. But he didn't remember eating it. Didn't remember anything.
The timestamp? Monday, 8:12 p.m.
And yet, in his head, there was just… blank space.
---
He called Max Carter, his oldest friend and one of the only people who could handle Salem's usual sarcasm without taking offense.
"Hey," Salem said, as soon as Max picked up, "Quick question. What day is it?"
"Uh… Tuesday?" Max answered, voice groggy. "I think. Why?"
"Do you remember Monday?"
A pause.
"...Shit."
"Exactly."
---
They weren't the only ones. Salem spent the next few hours scrolling through social media, watching the panic unfold. Hashtags like #WhereDidMondayGo and #TimeGlitch were everywhere. People posted screenshots of their phones, confused pets, missed work meetings, and half-finished chores they didn't remember starting.
Some laughed it off. Others sounded genuinely scared. A few claimed they could remember pieces—fleeting images, shadows, sounds they couldn't explain.
The news, as usual, was no help. A bland-looking spokesperson on the local channel assured everyone that "time anomalies were not occurring" and that there was "no cause for public concern."
Salem wasn't buying it. And judging by the growing threads of confusion online, neither was anyone else.
---
Later that afternoon, Salem wandered down to Brew HaHa, the small coffee shop he half-jokingly called his second home. The usual barista, Sarah, wasn't there.
"Called in sick," the new guy behind the counter said when Salem asked. "Didn't show up yesterday either."
"But… wasn't she here on Sunday?"
The guy gave him a strange look. "She doesn't work Sundays."
Salem left the shop feeling like the ground beneath his feet was starting to tilt.
---
By the end of the week, it wasn't just Monday that was gone. Wednesday vanished too. Then Friday. The gaps stretched wider, and reality started to feel less like a straight line and more like a skipping record.
Some people adapted. Some panicked. And some, like Salem, started keeping journals. Desperate to hold onto what was left of their memories.
> Tuesday. Woke up. No memory of Monday. Max says he doesn't remember either. Ordered food? Burger wrapper was in the trash. This is real. I think… I think something's wrong with time.
---
What Salem didn't know—what none of them knew—was that the skips were only the beginning. Because when time breaks, sometimes the pieces don't fall back into place the way they should.
And sometimes, the person you wake up as… isn't the person you were the day before.
---
End of Chapter 1