I woke up today at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Every day at the same time — and listen, I never miss. I'm a little proud of that, honestly, because apparently most people can't do it, you know? Even though I set my alarm for 6:30, I never wake up to it. I don't even know what my alarm ringtone sounds like.
I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and took a cold shower, like always. Nothing unusual happened — not until I went to make my bed that morning, at exactly 6:45 a.m.
What the—
There was a piece of paper lying on my bed. A small note, written in scrawny handwriting with purple ink. It looked like my favorite pen was used.
Weird.
I felt restless. My heartbeat was a little faster than usual. Did I dream? Or did I do something last night that I don't remember?
Hey, I'm telling you — I would never do that. I always stick to my routine.
"Lock your door properly every night. He will come!"
What a strange little note. But I wasn't afraid. I always make sure everything is secure. No burglar could get into my house. I crumpled the note and threw it into the dustbin, pushing it out of my mind.
Just like that, I left for work at 7:40 sharp.
Nothing unusual happened at work.
I finished my tasks on time. Ate lunch at 12:30. Left the office at 5:15. Reached home at 6:05. Same route, same traffic light stops, same old man selling fruit at the corner.
Routine. Perfect.
When I entered the house, the air felt… off.
Not messy. Not broken. Just wrong. Like someone had opened the windows and closed them again, but I always check before I leave.
I went through my evening routine anyway. Dinner at 7. Shower at 8. Scrolled on my phone until 9:30. Lights off at 10.
Before sleeping, I checked the doors.
Front door — locked.
Back door — locked.
Windows — locked.
See? Nothing to worry about.
At exactly 6:00 a.m., I woke up the next day. Sharp. Like always. I sat up, stretched, and went to the bathroom — brushed my teeth, took a cold shower.
But then… at 6:45, like the day before when I went to make my bed, there was another note. Same kind of small paper, but this time the handwriting was messier. Like it had been written in a rush. Purple ink again. My pen, for sure.
My heart started pounding before I even picked it up.
"Why didn't you listen?"
I stood there for a long time, trying to think.
Did someone enter? Impossible.
Did I sleepwalk? No. I don't do that.
Did I forget writing it? I would never forget something like that.
I stick to my routine. I always do.
Slowly, I walked to my desk. The purple pen was there. But the cap was off. And beside it, on my notebook (where I write all this), were words I don't remember writing:
"Day 3. He will come at 6:45. Stay safe!"
I don't feel safe at all. Someone is playing tricks on me. Someone even broke into my house. How dare they?
This morning, for the first time in my life, I decided to break my routine. It felt wrong. Heavy. But I had to.
No — I needed to.
At 7:30, I called my office to tell them I would be taking a half-day off. The secretary sounded worried and tried to pry into my business. If you knew me well enough, I'm sure your reaction would be the same. As I said before, I never miss my routine. Not even once.
At 8:00 that morning, I arrived at the police station and filed a break-in report. After answering so many questions from a tired-looking officer — and after handing over all the evidence (the two small notes) — I felt much better.
The heaviness seemed to vanish instantly. For the first time since yesterday, everything felt normal again.
Other than a few coworkers being curious about my half-day, nothing unusual happened at work. I finished my tasks on time. Ate lunch at 12:30. Left the office at 5:15. Reached home at 6:05.
Same old routine.
And somehow, that made me feel much better.
When I reached home at 6:05, everything looked exactly the same.
Shoes in place. Curtains closed. Nothing moved, nothing out of order. That alone made me feel much better.
I went through my evening routine like always. Dinner at 7. Shower at 8. Phone until 9:30. Lights off at 10.
Before sleeping, I checked the doors carefully.
Front door — locked.
Back door — locked.
Windows — locked.
Then I checked my bedroom door. I locked it. I even tested the handle twice. There was no way anyone could get in.
I slept well that night.
At 6:00 a.m., I woke up. Sharp. Like always.
But something felt wrong.
At first, I couldn't tell what it was. Everything looked normal. The room was quiet. The air was still. Then I noticed the bedroom door.
It was slightly open.
I was sure I locked it.
I got out of bed slowly and walked toward it. Maybe I didn't turn the lock properly. Maybe I was just tired last night. That must be it.
When I stepped into the hallway, I heard a sound from the living room. Movement. Not loud. Just the soft sound of someone shifting their weight.
My heart started beating faster, but I forced myself to stay calm. Maybe the police came. Maybe someone broke in and I didn't hear.
I walked toward the living room. And then I saw him. He was standing near my desk, looking at my notebook. For a few seconds, I didn't understand what I was looking at.
Because he looked exactly like me.
Same clothes. Same face. Same posture.
Even the way he held the pen was the way I usually hold it.
He noticed me and turned around. His expression was calm. Not surprised. Not scared. Almost relieved.
"You finally unlocked the door," he said.
His voice sounded exactly like mine.
I couldn't move. I couldn't even think. My mind kept trying to explain it — a twin, a hallucination, a dream — but nothing made sense.
He stepped closer.
"I've been trying to warn you," he continued quietly. "You don't remember what happens at night. That's why I wrote the notes."
I shook my head. "No. That's not possible. I would remember. I always remember."
He stopped right in front of me. For the first time, his expression changed. Not angry. Not cruel. Just tired.
"That's the problem," he said. "You never remember."
Before I could react, his hands grabbed my throat. He was stronger than me. Or maybe he just knew exactly where to press. I struggled, but my body felt slow and heavy, like I was already losing control. The last thing I saw was my own face, very close to mine, calm and focused.
Then everything went dark.
The next morning, I woke at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Brushed my teeth, took a cold shower, made my bed at 6:45 — just like always.
Around 7:30, my phone rang. It was the police.
I froze for a moment. I usually answer calls calmly, but something about this one made my chest tighten.
"Hello?"
Except… it wasn't my voice that came out.
It was calm. Controlled. Familiar, but not me.
"Yes, this is the resident," the voice said clearly. "How can I help you?"
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My hands were shaking.
The officer on the line continued, "We're calling to follow up on the break-in report from yesterday. Can you confirm your presence at the scene this morning?"
The voice — my voice, but not mine — answered smoothly, "Yes, officer. I'm here. Everything is fine."
And just like that, I realized.
The other me had taken over.
The one who had been leaving the notes. The one who knew the routine better than I did. The one who was calm, perfect, in control.
I tried to move, to stop him, to say something, but I couldn't.
Routine had already taken over.
Perfect.
And somewhere deep in my mind, I knew it was over.