Lucas realizes the conversation is already happening when he becomes aware he's sitting in the teachers' lounge.
He doesn't remember arriving.
The coffee in his hand is hot.
He doesn't remember pouring it.
A quick thud in his chest.
How long have I been here?
Someone laughs nearby.
"You left right after the meeting yesterday."
Lucas looks up.
"Meeting?"
The coworker laughs, not suspicious at all.
"The one after school. You were in a rush."
A short silence.
Lucas answers automatically.
"Oh. Right."
The reply comes before the thought.
The thought follows after.
I don't remember any meeting.
He lifts the coffee to his lips to hide the delay inside his head.
Another teacher speaks without looking up from her phone.
"And that comment you made about the juniors yesterday? That was harsh."
His stomach tightens.
"I said that?"
"You did."
Simple. Natural. No concern.
The thought arrives, dry and sharp.
I only remember waking up on that street.
A pause.
I don't know what happened before that.
Someone flips through papers.
"You seemed normal yesterday."
Lucas doesn't answer.
He holds the mug with both hands.
The heat finally registers. Late.
The day existed for everyone.
Except me.
His heart beats once, hard.
So what exactly happened yesterday?
He stands and leaves before anyone can say anything else.
The walk home should be automatic.
Today it isn't.
He feels the urge to look over his shoulder before he knows why.
He looks.
No one stands out.
Still, the feeling doesn't go away.
It changes shape.
Becomes more specific.
Like someone watched too long before looking away.
He keeps walking.
Normal steps. Normal pace.
His body doesn't believe it.
A man by the newsstand holds his gaze a second too long.
Lucas keeps moving.
Another man leaning against a car lifts his head as Lucas passes.
Too quick to be casual.
Too slow to be coincidence.
Lucas doesn't fully turn.
Just enough to confirm no one's following.
The feeling stays anyway.
A memory tries to surface.
Stops before forming an image.
Soft scent.
Feminine.
Home.
Shared objects.
The thought lands fully formed.
The apartment didn't feel empty yesterday.
His steps slow without warning.
Why did it feel like someone still lived there?
His heart speeds up.
His steps follow.
Faster now.
More certain.
I need to check the apartment.
A short pause.
What if she's still there?
He speeds up, almost running without admitting he's running.
A woman passes him on the sidewalk.
Their eyes meet for a second.
Long enough for something strange to happen.
A quick, uneasy feeling.
Like recognizing someone out of context.
He keeps walking.
Two steps later, the question appears on its own.
Where have I seen her?
He tries to pull the memory forward.
Nothing comes.
The feeling stays.
Ahead, a man crosses the street in the opposite direction.
Their eyes meet again.
The same feeling.
Recognition without memory.
Like faces seen yesterday in a place that no longer exists.
His heart races.
Ideas start connecting before they make sense.
People staring.
Lingering looks.
Missing memories.
The apartment waiting.
Something happened yesterday.
The key is already in his hand before he realizes he's home.
The lock turns too fast.
The door opens.
Silence greets him first.
Heavy.
Still.
Wrong.
The thought forms before his second step.
Something's different.
Too different.
Too wrong.
The air feels like it hasn't moved in hours.
What happened here while I was gone?
He steps inside.
The chair at the table is perfectly aligned.
Too straight.
Too centered.
He looks at the couch.
His chest tightens.
Nothing is out of place.
Nothing looks removed.
Nothing looks missing.
The living room looks… normal.
Too normal.
He frowns.
I thought…
The thought doesn't finish.
He keeps walking.
The table surface is clean.
Organized.
Familiar.
Like always.
The living room shelf draws no attention.
Because there's no empty space.
No mark.
No absence.
Like nothing was ever there.
He stops.
The street feeling returns.
The looks.
The familiar faces.
Recognition without memory.
He moves down the hallway.
The closet is organized.
Clothes aligned.
Even spacing.
Nothing out of pattern.
Like it's always been.
A drawer opens.
Folded clothes.
Only his.
No space for anyone else.
He closes it slowly.
His heart speeds up.
The bedroom appears before he realizes it.
He steps inside.
A twin bed.
Tight sheets.
One pillow.
Only one.
Lucas stops.
Yesterday…
The thought freezes.
Yesterday there felt like two.
The scent.
The glasses.
The blanket.
The pillows.
The memory rises like a dream image.
Fragmented. Unreal.
He steps back.
His chest tightens.
What if I'm going crazy?
The question arrives whole.
Cold. Direct.
The apartment looks exactly like it always has.
No signs of change.
No signs of intrusion.
No signs of another person.
Like yesterday never existed.
Like it was a badly remembered dream.
Lucas stands motionless in the middle of the room.
The idea tries to settle.
Maybe I dreamed it.
Maybe none of it happened.
Maybe I'm mixing exhaustion with imagination.
He forces a long breath.
Almost accepts it.
Almost.
His chest tightens before the thought can close.
No.
The answer comes too fast.
That wasn't a dream.
The scent was recent.
The glasses were on the table.
There were two pillows.
That wasn't a dream.
He walks back to the living room without noticing he started moving.
His gaze scans the space again.
Slower now.
Searching.
Not remembering.
Searching.
The front door catches his attention first.
Nothing looks wrong from a distance.
He steps closer.
A thin scratch marks the metal edge of the lock.
Too small to notice from afar.
Too fresh to be old.
His heart speeds up.
He runs a finger over it.
Cold. Real.
His gaze drops to the floor.
The entry rug is slightly misaligned.
A few inches.
Almost invisible.
But he remembers straightening that rug every day.
The air feels heavier.
His eyes scan the room again.
Slower. Sharper.
The side table sits in the same place.
But the coaster isn't perfectly centered.
Millimeters off.
Too small for a guest to notice.
Too big for him to ignore.
The thought forms completely.
Someone was here.
The street feeling returns.
The faces.
The lingering looks.
Recognition without memory.
The missing memory.
The thought builds on its own.
Whatever erased her… erased the traces.
They started with memory.
Now they've reached the physical world.
Lucas looks at the door. Instinct.
They knew exactly what to remove.
They knew exactly where to look.
A new idea forms.
Because they've been here before.
The question rises on its own.
Do they know I noticed?
The apartment stays silent.
The final thought lands fully formed.
They didn't just erase the memory.
They erased proof she ever existed here.
A long pause.
The question changes.
What else have they already erased?