Day 4 without him.

I woke to the smell of coffee.
Rich. Bitter. Fresh.

But I hadn’t made any.

Two cups sat on the table. Both steaming. Both set neatly across from each other, like a conversation was about to begin.

I whispered into the silence, “Hello?”
Nothing.

I reached for the nearest cup—still hot, too hot, as if it had been poured seconds ago. My hands shook, almost spilling it.

Then I saw it.

On the rim of the other cup—lipstick.
My shade.

I dropped the mug; coffee splashed across the tiles.
I stumbled backward, grabbing the counter for balance.

“No… no, I didn’t—”
My voice broke.

My phone buzzed.

A text. From my own number.

Look at the mirror.

My throat went dry.

I turned slowly toward the hallway.

The mirror was fogged… like someone had just stood there breathing.

And across the glass, written with a fingertip:

“Remember.”

Remember what?

I stepped closer to the mirror, barely breathing.
The fog was fading, the letters dissolving, disappearing—as if someone had written it moments before I woke.

A fresh tremor ran through me.

I lifted my hand and touched the glass.

Cold.
Too cold.
My reflection stared back at me—pale, wide-eyed, trembling.

But the worst part wasn’t the fear on my face.

It was the smear of lipstick at the corner of my mouth.

The same shade on the cup.

The one I swore I hadn’t worn in days.

My heart hammered.
“No… I didn't put this on. I didn’t—”

My phone buzzed again.

REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID.