I woke to the sound of typing.Sharp, rhythmic, endless.
For a second, I thought it was a dream, the kind where you can't move, where the sound comes from everywhere and nowhere. But when I opened my eyes, the glow of the laptop filled the room. My fingers were already on the keys.
They were moving.Not mine, not me.
I tried to pull back, but my wrists felt locked in place, as if invisible strings held them taut. The screen flickered, words forming faster than I could read:
"You said you'd tell the truth this time.""You owe me a real ending."
I whispered, "Stop."But the typing didn't stop.
My hands, his hands, kept going, hammering the keys with desperate precision. I could feel the tension in the tendons, the press of each key burning through my fingertips. It wasn't pain. It was possession.
The sentences took shape like wounds reopening, details from that night I hadn't written down, moments I thought I'd forgotten. The smell of rain, the crunch of glass, Jules screaming, Kane's voice saying.
No.No, I didn't want to see it again.
But the fingers kept moving, faster, crueler, until tears blurred my vision. I tried to close the laptop, but my own hands resisted. It was like something inside me refused to stop.
Finally, I shouted, "Kane!"The typing froze mid-sentence.
Then, slowly, letter by letter, the words appeared:
"You called my name too late."
I stared at the screen. My reflection in the black keys didn't blink when I did. And for the first time, I noticed.There were fingerprints smudged across the keyboard that weren't mine.