CH5

I woke up to the sound of... nothing.

Again.

Not even the usual distant murmur of the city outside, or the clunky pipes rattling in the walls. Just that deep, suffocating stillness. Like the room was listening.

I sat up slowly, my body sore like I'd spent the night running instead of sleeping. I tried to remember what I dreamed about — something about falling, or maybe drowning — but it slipped away the second I opened my eyes. All that remained was a dull ache in the back of my skull.

That's when I saw them.

Faint, uneven blotches on the wall near the desk. I squinted, thinking it was just mold or some water damage... but no.

They looked like faces.

Not detailed, not full — just the vague impression of eyes, mouths, expressions. A whole wall of half-formed people, pressed against the paint.

I blinked. They vanished.

I didn't get up right away. I just sat there, staring at where the faces had been, wondering if I was still dreaming. Or if this room was just slowly chipping away at whatever part of me still believed in reality.

Eventually, I forced myself out of bed.

I needed to write. If I didn't anchor something down — anything — I felt like I'd start unraveling.

I opened my notebook.

But the pages were full.

Not just full — written in.

Dozens of pages. Dozens of entries. Dated. Neat. In my handwriting.

But I didn't write them.

There was one about a child disappearing in this room in 1998. Another about my "first night" in Room 313 — but the details didn't match anything I remembered. One said I had a sister. I don't. Another claimed I'd lived here before.

All of it… felt almost familiar.

But I knew none of it was real.

I flipped faster and faster through the pages, my pulse spiking. How long had this been happening? Was it even happening? Maybe I'd written all of it during some blackout.

Or maybe something else had.

I slammed the notebook shut.

And then I saw it.

The mirror.

It was back.

Hung exactly where it had been the first day I moved in, slightly tilted to the right.

I froze. My chest locked up.

It had disappeared.

I'd seen it gone.

Now it was here. No sound. No sign. Just… back.

Slowly, like I was approaching a wild animal, I stepped toward it.

The glass was clean, untouched. My reflection looked pale, exhausted, hollow-eyed. But still me.

Until it wasn't.

My reflection smiled.

A slow, deliberate, knowing smile.

I didn't.

I wasn't smiling.

Then — it winked.

I stumbled back. Hit the desk. Nearly knocked over the lamp.

When I looked again, the reflection was normal. Frozen like a photograph. Blank. No smile. No wink.

I didn't dare touch it.

I needed to get out of that room.

Outside, the air felt wrong too. Like I had walked into a version of the world that was just a few degrees off. The sky was the same color, but colder. The faces around campus — familiar but not quite right.

I went to the student services building. Straight to the mental health office. I didn't make an appointment. Just walked in.

The counselor — Dr. Elwood — looked like he'd seen a thousand versions of me before. Young men with circles under their eyes and voices full of hesitation.

I didn't tell him about the mirror. Or the notebook. Or the wall.

I just said I was tired. That I hadn't been sleeping well.

He nodded. Gave me a pamphlet. Asked about stress. Smiled too much.

When I left, I felt worse.

As I stepped outside, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Unknown number.

I answered.

Nothing at first.

Then… a voice.

My own voice.

Distorted. Whispering. Distant.

"You're remembering it wrong."

Then static. And the call ended.

When I opened my call history, it was gone.

No trace of the number.

I didn't go to class.

I sat in the cafeteria, tray untouched. The room full of people — students laughing, chatting, scrolling their phones.

No one noticed me.

Not one glance.

Not a single acknowledgment.

Even when I stood. Even when I waved my hand right in front of a group — nothing.

Like I wasn't there.

Like I'd never been.

I ran back to my dorm. Slammed the door. Panted like I'd just escaped something.

I started muttering to myself.

"It's not real. It's not real. I'm real. I'm real—"

And then I saw the mirror again.

And him.

Me.

He didn't mutter. He didn't speak.

He just stared.

And then… he smiled.

The same smile as before. Crooked. Calm.

Then, without me moving a muscle, he mouthed the words:

"I know."

I locked myself in the bathroom. Sat on the floor, knees against my chest.

I needed to write. I needed to take back control.

I grabbed the notebook again.

Opened to a fresh page.

But it wasn't blank.

"Write nothing. Watch everything."

The ink wasn't dry.

My pen was still capped.

I tried to tear the page.

It wouldn't tear.

The paper was stiff. Almost metallic.

I tried again. It just bent, then returned to shape like it had memory.

Like it didn't want to be destroyed.

I stared at the sentence.

My hands were trembling.

"I don't know if I'm still me anymore," I whispered.

And then—

The door creaked open.

No knock.

Just… opened.

The hallway beyond was dark. Deeper than it should've been. No flickering light from the exit signs. Just an infinite stretch of shadow.

I stood in the doorway.

Cold air brushed past me like a warning.

I stepped back into the room.

The walls were different now.

On the wall — carved deep, too deep — were five words:

"You're not the first Adam."

My throat closed.

I touched the letters. Cold.

Solid.

Real.

And the only thought I had, echoing over and over again in my head, louder than my own heartbeat:

If I'm not me…

then who the hell have I been this whole time?