The Unseen Threads
The night was eerily still.
Yuer lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind tangled in a web of thoughts.
It had happened again.
The strange, unexplainable shifts—the moments when she felt like she wasn't entirely herself.
At first, they were small, almost imperceptible. A misplaced object. A pen resting in the wrong hand. A lingering feeling of déjà vu that didn't quite make sense.
But this time, it was different.
This time, her journal had been rewritten.
A Fractured Memory
She flipped back a few pages, scanning her own handwriting.
"Cher sat with me at the cafeteria today. She laughed at my lunch, saying it was way too healthy."
Yuer's fingers froze over the paper.
That wasn't right.
She remembered that day perfectly—because she had been alone.
She had deliberately avoided the cafeteria crowd, taking her tray to a quiet corner, eating quickly, then leaving before anyone could sit with her.
But here, in her own handwriting, was a completely different version of events.
Her fingers traced the words, her pulse quickening.
This wasn't just forgetting something trivial. This was her memory being overwritten.
A wave of unease crawled up her spine.
Had she truly been alone that day? Or had she imagined it?
She turned the page, flipping back to earlier entries, scanning for more discrepancies.
At first, everything looked normal. The same mundane details, the same thoughts jotted down in rushed handwriting—complaints about homework, notes about an upcoming test, random musings about a book she had been reading.
Then she spotted it.
Another inconsistency.
A week ago, she had written about feeling exhausted after staying up late studying. But she remembered that night—she hadn't studied. She had fallen asleep early, too drained from a long day.
Her breathing hitched.
This wasn't forgetfulness. This wasn't absentmindedness.
Something—or someone—was altering her past.
A Reality Out of Sync
She shut the journal with a soft thud, pressing her fingers against her temple as she tried to slow her breathing.
Maybe she was remembering wrong. Maybe she had just mixed things up.
That would be the logical answer, wouldn't it?
But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, something deep in her gut told her the truth—this wasn't a mistake.
She had lived one version of that day.
And yet, the world seemed to insist that it had happened differently.
Unwanted Confirmation
The next afternoon, she sat at her usual spot in the cafeteria, absently pushing food around on her plate.
"Are you eating that boring stuff again?"
A familiar voice.
Cher plopped down across from her, grinning, her tray clattering against the table.
Her fingers stiffened around her spoon.
She looked up, her voice quieter than usual. "Cher… are you sure we ate together a few days ago?"
Cher blinked. "Of course. Who else would I have eaten with?"
Her stomach twisted.
The way she said it—so certain, so casual.
She knew Cher wasn't lying. She had no reason to.
So if her memory was real…
Then Yuer's wasn't?
She clenched her fist beneath the table, nails digging into her palm.
If she couldn't trust her own memories—then what else had been rewritten without her even noticing?
The Sound of Silence
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She lay awake, her heart pounding, fingers gripping the edge of her blanket.
Her journal sat open on her desk, untouched since she had last read it. The words burned into her mind. A version of reality she did not remember.
But someone did.
Her hands trembled as she reached for a pen.
Her breath was unsteady, her pulse erratic.
Then, hesitating only for a second, she pressed the tip of her pen against the blank space beneath the last entry and wrote:
"Who are you?"
A shiver ran down her spine.
She had no idea who she was writing to.
She had no idea if she expected a response.
But she couldn't stop herself.