The buzzing stopped.

Silence pooled around me like water, rising, choking.
I wiped the lipstick again, harder this time, until my skin stung.
The red smear only spread across my cheek.

I went to the sink, splashed water on my face, gripped the counter until my knuckles whitened.

“Think,” I whispered.
But thinking was the problem.

I checked my call logs—empty.
My messages—clean.
No unknown number.
No texts from myself.

Just blank screens.
As if none of it ever happened.

My hands shook.

I knew what I saw.
I knew what I read.

I looked around the apartment. Everything felt slightly… displaced.
A book that should’ve been on the shelf was on the couch.
The window I swore I’d locked yesterday stood open an inch.
The mug I dropped was no longer on the floor.

Had I cleaned it?

I didn’t remember.

My breath hitched.

I walked to the table, trying to steady myself.
My eyes landed on the two coffee mugs.

Only one remained.

The other—the one with the lipstick stain—was gone.

My heartbeat stuttered painfully.

I stood still for a full minute, listening.
To the hum of the refrigerator.
To the ticking of the clock.
To the faint, rhythmic sound coming from somewhere behind me—

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

I turned slowly.

My diary was open again.

I hadn’t touched it.

The pen I didn’t own lay across the page, rolling slightly with each tap.

My throat tightened as I stepped closer.

A new line bled across the paper, written in my unmistakable handwriting:

“Stop acting surprised.”

I stared at the words until they blurred.

A strange, hollow calm washed over me—almost relief.

Because a small, terrifying part of me knew:

This wasn’t someone else haunting me.

It was me.

And whatever I was forgetting…

I wasn’t sure I wanted to remember anymore.