I told myself I was in control.That I could write my truth before he wrote it for me.That was the first lie.
The room was silent except for the soft hum of my laptop. No internet, no documents open, yet the cursor blinked, waiting.Accusing.
I opened a new file and titled it Confession.The word alone made my throat tighten.
I began typing what I remembered: the party, the argument, the road, the crash. I wrote about the rain that wouldn't stop, the headlights that never came soon enough, the moment the world went red and then went still.I tried to write my version. The clean version.But before I could hit save, new words appeared beneath mine.Not typed by me. Not mine at all.
"You forgot the part where you laughed.You forgot the part where you lied to the paramedics.You forgot me."
I froze. The keys were moving on their own again, but this time, I didn't pull away. I just watched as his words filled the page, each one a blade cutting into memory.
He remembered everything. Every hesitation, every omission, every moment I'd rewritten to protect myself. And with each correction he made, my guilt grew heavier—so heavy I could barely breathe.
When I tried to delete his words, they came back darker, bolder.When I stopped typing, I heard his whisper through the speakers—not a recording, not an echo.A breath.
"Keep going, A.K. You owe me this much."
I cried while I wrote. Not because I wanted to—but because I couldn't stop. Because somewhere in the dark, he was watching me type, word by word, and I think he was smiling.
The confession wasn't mine anymore.It was ours.