The Forgotten Days

I woke up feeling off. Something wasn’t right. At first, it was small—a cup in the sink, a jacket on the chair. Then, I noticed the dates on my calendar. They didn’t add up.

I thought I was tired. Maybe overworked. But the more I looked, the worse it seemed. The last few weeks blurred, but I was sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Or had I?

The missing days grew. I searched my photos, my messages, trying to piece it together. Nothing. Friends mentioned events I didn’t remember. “Remember that night out?” they asked. “You were there.” I couldn’t recall any of it.

Then, the messages came.

The first was vague: "Don't forget the days." The second: "The days are coming for you." How was it in my handwriting? I hadn’t written it. Someone knew. Someone was watching me. But who?

The more I looked, the more I felt like something—or someone—had taken the time. The nights were the worst. Strange dreams, faces I didn’t recognize. I woke up gasping, unsure what was real.

I called my best friend. “You don’t remember, do you?” she asked. Her voice trembled. What was she talking about? What was I forgetting?

I dug deeper into my past. My phone, messages, social media—nothing fit anymore. People spoke of events I hadn’t attended, photos of me in places I’d never been. My whole life felt like a movie I hadn’t seen.

The more I searched, the more I disconnected. My apartment felt suffocating, like a cage. I started seeing things—things that weren’t there. My reflection didn’t move right. It was always a second behind. It seemed to follow me. I would turn fast, and it would catch up, but always too late.

Then the notes began.

The third said: "Stop remembering." The urge to forget was overwhelming. But I couldn’t. The more I tried, the more details rushed back. Names, faces, places—all slipping in, falling apart. I couldn’t hold on.

I found an email, subject line: "Meet me at the usual place." Who was “Me”? I had no idea where that was. The email came from an unfamiliar account. But the name was clear: "Me." A knot formed in my stomach. Why was I being pulled into this?

The texts kept coming: "You were never supposed to remember." "The time is near." The messages were cryptic, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit. I had to know. I had to meet whoever was sending them. But I was terrified.

I drove to the address. An abandoned building on the edge of town. The door creaked as I turned the handle. Inside, dust filled the air, and the walls were covered with old photos. I didn’t know any of them, but all had one thing in common: they were pictures of me. I stepped forward, my heart racing.

A voice came from behind me. Soft. Familiar. "You remember now, don’t you?"

I spun around. There, standing in the doorway, was me. Or someone who looked exactly like me.

The figure before me wasn’t human. It was me, but it wasn’t. Its eyes were too wide, its smile too perfect. The reflection, the missing days, the notes—it all led to this moment.

"I’ve been waiting," it said. "You were never meant to remember. You were never meant to return."

The room spun. I stumbled back, searching for something to hold. There was nothing. The walls blurred. The photos, faces, dates mixed, making no sense. I couldn’t breathe. My thoughts unraveled faster than I could grasp them.

“You’ll forget again,” it whispered. “We always forget.”

Then, just as it appeared, the figure vanished. The room was silent. Empty. I was alone.

But I wasn’t alone. The pieces of my life scattered. I wasn’t sure where I ended, where it began. The days were coming for me, and there was no way to stop them.

The cycle had started again.

And this time, I wasn’t sure I could remember enough to break free.