I woke to the sound of typing again.
At first, I thought it was me. But it wasn't.
The words on the screen weren't mine. Not exactly. They sounded… wrong and familiar all at once. Like someone was whispering inside my skull while my fingers danced on the keys.
"I've been waiting for you to remember."
I pressed my palms to my face. My reflection stared back from the black screen. My eyes, tired and haunted, seemed to hold someone else's shadow.
Every sentence I typed now carried his rhythm. The way he phrased a thought, twisted a phrase, made guilt taste like confession. I tried to stop. Tried to force my own style back into the manuscript.
It didn't work.
"You can't separate us anymore," the cursor blinked.
I shivered. I wasn't sure where I ended and he began. When I read the lines aloud, I could almost hear his voice, soft, accusing, familiar. Sometimes it spoke through me, correcting, urging, judging.
I tried to step away, to close the laptop. My hands wouldn't obey.
"Your fingers are mine now," the page whispered.
The rain outside had stopped, but the tapping continued inside my skull. Every heartbeat felt like a warning. I could feel him behind me, watching, waiting for the next chapter, the next confession.
I wanted to scream, to throw the laptop, to burn the apartment down.
But I couldn't.
Because the story was no longer mine to stop.
And deep inside, I knew, every time I typed, a piece of me slipped away. Every keystroke made me a little less A.K. and a little more him.
I sat there, trembling, and whispered to the empty room:
"Who am I anymore?"
The cursor blinked twice. Then a line appeared:
"The one who knows the dead."