I didn’t turn around immediately.
The phone was still pressed to my ear, my own voice echoing faintly through the speaker as if it were trapped somewhere between time and distance. My breathing matched it—too perfectly.
Behind me, the floor creaked again.
Slow. Measured.
Someone was inside.
I lowered the phone, ending the call without thinking, and set it gently on the table. My mind was racing, but my body stayed controlled. Calm. Quiet.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
No answer.
Only silence stretching thin.
I turned slowly.
He stood there—just inside the hallway, partially swallowed by shadow.
Dara.
“You’re awake,” he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just appeared inside my locked apartment at two in the morning.
My chest tightened, but I kept my expression neutral. “How did you get in?”
“You gave me a key,” he replied.
“I never gave you a key.”
A flicker of something crossed his face. Gone too quickly to read.
“You must have forgotten,” he said lightly.
That word again.
Forgotten.
It landed heavier than it should have.
I studied him carefully. We had been together for two years. I knew his habits, his expressions, the way he avoided eye contact when he wasn’t telling the full truth.
And right now, he wasn’t looking at me.
“My phone just called me,” I said.
He stilled.
“From my own number,” I continued. “And I heard my voice.”
He forced a small smile. “You probably dreamed it.”
“I didn’t.”
Silence again.
Then, carefully, I added, “The voice told me not to trust you.”
That got his attention.
His gaze snapped to mine, sharp now. Alert.
“What exactly did it say?” he asked.
“Why?” I countered. “Should I be concerned?”
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re tired. That’s all. You’ve been stressed lately.”
“Stop,” I said, my voice steady but firm. “Don’t dismiss this.”
He stepped closer. “I’m not dismissing it. I’m trying to explain it.”
“Then explain how you got inside my apartment without me knowing.”
“I told you—”
“I never gave you a key,” I repeated.
We stood there, facing each other, the tension thick enough to feel.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine.”
That one word shifted everything.
“There are things you don’t remember,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
“Everyone keeps saying that tonight,” I replied quietly.
“Everyone?”
I gestured toward my phone. “Apparently me, too.”
He hesitated.
Then he did something unexpected.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Look,” he said, unlocking it and handing it to me.
I took it cautiously.
A message thread was open.
My name at the top.
But I didn’t remember sending any of it.
I scrolled.
If something happens to me, don’t tell her the truth right away.
She won’t be able to handle it.
Make sure she stays here.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What is this?” I asked.
“You,” he said.
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
I looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of deception.
“Why would I send this?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he said, “There’s more.”
Of course there was.
He took the phone back, opening another file—this time, a video.
“Watch.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
He pressed play.
The screen flickered to life.
And there I was.
Sitting in this very apartment.
Wearing the same clothes I had on now.
But something was different.
My expression.
Fear.
Raw and unmistakable.
“I don’t have much time,” the version of me in the video said. “If you’re watching this, it means it worked.”
My breath caught.
“Worked?” I whispered.
The video continued.
“I erased parts of my memory. On purpose.”
My grip on reality wavered.
“No,” I said under my breath.
“I found something I wasn’t supposed to,” the video-me said. “Something about him.”
The camera shifted slightly, like I had glanced toward someone off-screen.
Toward Dara.
“He’s not who he says he is.”
The room felt colder.
Behind me, Dara didn’t move.
“You need to be careful,” the video-me continued. “Because if he finds out you remember—”
The video cut off abruptly.
Silence crashed back into the room.
I stared at the blank screen, my heart pounding but my mind strangely focused.
Calm.
Too calm.
I turned to Dara slowly.
“Explain.”
He didn’t look surprised anymore.
Just… tired.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” he said.
“That’s not an explanation.”
He nodded. “You’re right.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “My name isn’t Dara.”
I didn’t react.
Not outwardly.
“What is it?” I asked.
He hesitated.
Then: “Sokha.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Or at least, it shouldn’t have.
But something deep inside me stirred.
A flicker.
A fragment.
“You lied to me,” I said.
“Yes.”
“About everything?”
“No.”
I crossed my arms. “Convince me.”
He took a step closer, careful, like approaching something fragile.
“I didn’t lie about how I feel about you,” he said.
“That’s convenient.”
“I’m serious.”
I held his gaze, unflinching. “Then start with the truth.”
He nodded slowly.
“I wasn’t supposed to meet you,” he said. “You were part of something… bigger.”
“What kind of ‘something’?”
He hesitated. “An investigation.”
My chest tightened.
“Into what?”
“You.”
That landed harder than anything else.
“Why?”
“Because of your past.”
I laughed quietly. “Apparently, I don’t even remember my past.”
“That’s because you erased it.”
“According to that video.”
“According to what I saw.”
I studied him carefully. “So you got close to me… for what? Information?”
“At first,” he admitted.
“And now?”
He didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
I turned away, processing everything.
The call. The video. The messages.
And then something clicked.
I grabbed my phone and checked the call log.
The number.
It wasn’t just my number.
It was saved under a name.
A name I didn’t remember adding.
“Who is ‘M’?” I asked.
His expression shifted again.
“I don’t know.”
I turned the screen toward him.
“The call came from this contact.”
He stared at it, his jaw tightening.
“That’s not possible,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the name you used.”
“For who?”
He hesitated.
Then said quietly, “For the person you were before.”
A chill ran through me.
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.
A new message.
From the same contact.
M.
My heart pounded as I opened it.
A single line appeared:
Check the drawer.
I froze.
Slowly, deliberately, I walked to the desk.
Dara didn’t stop me.
Didn’t speak.
I opened the drawer.
Inside was a folder.
Thick.
Heavy.
Waiting.
I pulled it out, setting it on the table.
Then opened it.
Documents.
Photos.
Names.
Transactions.
And at the center of it all—
My name.
Attached to something far darker than I had imagined.
I looked up at him, my expression unreadable.
“This is what I found, isn’t it?” I said.
He nodded.
“And this is why I erased my memory.”
“Yes.”
I took a slow breath.
Then another.
And in that moment, something settled inside me.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Clarity.
“I understand now,” I said quietly.
He watched me carefully. “What do you understand?”
I closed the folder.
“That I wasn’t just hiding from you,” I said.
“I was hiding from myself.”
He left that night.
Not because I told him to.
But because there was nothing left to say.
Trust, once broken, doesn’t rebuild easily.
And some truths change everything.
Weeks later, I stood by the window, watching the city move on without me.
The folder sat on the table behind me.
Untouched.
But not forgotten.
I had spent days reading it.
Understanding it.
Accepting it.
I couldn’t undo what I had been.
But I could decide who I would become.
I picked up my phone, scrolling to the contact labeled M.
For a long moment, I stared at it.
Then I deleted it.
Not out of fear.
But out of choice.
Because whatever version of me had created it…
Was no longer who I was.
And this time, I wouldn’t forget.