Ken was driving, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable; it was something else.
Something fragile.
Something waiting.
The hum of the engine, the faint crackle of the radio, the soft rhythm of his breathing, it all felt hypnotic.
Like I'd been in this exact car, on this exact road, a thousand times before.
My eyes drifted to his profile.
His jawline caught the fading light.
The slope of his nose.
The faint dimple on his left cheek whenever he exhaled.
It was all too familiar.
Too memorized.
Yet every time I looked at him, it felt like meeting him for the first time.
"You're quiet again," Ken said without looking at me.
I smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just tired."
"You worked hard today," he replied. "I'm proud of you."
Those words, so simple, so kind, struck deeper than they should have.
I swallowed hard, looking away toward the window.
The streets blurred into streaks of light and shadow.
My reflection stared back, eyes distant, almost foreign.
Who am I becoming?
When we got home, he insisted on walking me to my apartment door.
"Thanks for today," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
"It's me who should thank you," I said softly. "For bringing me there."
"You looked happy," he said.
"I was," I answered and I meant it.
But as soon as he turned to leave, a strange unease settled inside me.
Like the moment he stepped away, something in the world shifted out of place.
Inside my apartment, everything looked exactly as it should, the soft couch, the faint scent of jasmine from the candle I forgot to blow out, the mug on the counter still half-filled with cold coffee.
But the air felt… wrong.
Heavier.
I sat on the couch and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the sudden pulse in my chest.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily 9:37 p.m.
The same sound, the same rhythm, but it echoed differently tonight.
My hands trembled when I reached for my phone.
No messages.
Not from anyone.
No calls from my manager, no emails from my parents.
Nothing.
Usually, that silence brought me peace.
Tonight, it scared me.
It felt like the world was slowly erasing the parts of my life that didn't belong here.
—
After a few minutes of restless stillness, I decided to take a walk.
Maybe the air outside would help.
The night breeze was cool, carrying the scent of rain that never came.
Streetlights flickered softly, casting long shadows that seemed to follow a beat my steps didn't match.
When I reached Ken's apartment, the light in his unit was still on.
I could see his silhouette moving through the blinds, folding something, maybe preparing for tomorrow.
For some reason, I smiled.
He grounded me. Always.
I wanted to knock.
To say goodnight.
To tell him that I was scared, that something was happening inside me that I didn't understand.
But I didn't.
I just stood there, hidden in the dim glow of the hallway, and watched him until he turned off the lights.
The next day, the deja vu grew worse.
Every face I saw in the mirror felt borrowed.
Every corner of the apartment looked like a photograph from a memory that wasn't mine.
Even the sunlight filtering through the curtains felt like a repetition.
I tried to distract myself, made breakfast, washed dishes, replayed the playlist Ken once made me.
Then my phone buzzed.
Ken: "We're setting up another small mission next week. Want to come again?"
My fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing:
Me: "Of course. I'd love to."
He replied almost instantly.
Ken: "Good. I like having you there."
Those words warmed me, but also pulled at something deep, painful, and unexplainable.
Like I'd heard them before.
In another life.
That night, I dreamt of the same hospital from the mission.
But this time, it was empty.
Lights flickering.
Hallways stretching endlessly.
At the end of one corridor, I saw Ken, standing, his back turned to me.
I called his name.
He didn't turn.
I ran.
My footsteps echoed, hollow, distorted.
When I reached him, my hands passed right through his arm.
Like he was made of smoke.
He started walking away, fading with every step.
"Ken!" I screamed. "Don't leave me!"
But he didn't stop.
And when I finally reached out again, the world shattered, a sound like glass breaking under my ribs —
I woke up gasping.
It was still dark outside. 3:12 a.m.
Sweat clung to my skin, my heart pounding so violently I thought I'd throw up.
I pressed my hands over my face, trying to breathe.
My fingers trembled.
That wasn't just a dream.
It felt real.
Too real.
I stood up and walked toward the mirror.
My reflection stared back, wide-eyed, terrified.
And for one terrifying second, I didn't recognize the woman staring at me.
Her features were mine, the same hair, the same lips, the same eyes,
but the way she looked at me… like I was the intruder.
I stumbled backward, hitting the dresser, tears spilling before I realized I was crying.
"What's happening to me?" I whispered to the empty room.
No answer.
Just silence.
And in that silence, I could still hear the faint echo of his voice from the dream, fading, fading, fading —
"Ysabelle…"