I wasn't surprised when it happened again.
By the fifth skipped day, I had officially reached the "acceptance" stage of whatever weird cosmic joke my life had become. I woke up, blinked at my alarm, checked the date, and—yep—it was Tuesday. Not Monday. Not Sunday. Just... Tuesday.
I sighed.
Honestly, what was the point of reacting anymore? The universe clearly had its own agenda, and I was just along for the ride. My life had turned into some broken flipbook, with every other page missing, but no one else seemed to notice.
That morning, as I brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror, I asked myself out loud, "What even is my life?" The reflection stared back, toothpaste foam threatening to slide off my chin. No answers. Just the hollow-eyed me, tired of the mystery but too exhausted to fight it.
School was a blur, as always. Half of the things people talked about didn't make sense. Lina—my best friend—gave me a look during lunch that said it all.
"Dude. You've been acting weird lately. Like...even weirder than usual," she muttered, tossing a grape into her mouth.
I offered her a weak smile. How could I explain that half my life was literally missing? That sometimes I'd wake up and entire days would be gone? I couldn't tell her. It sounded insane, even to me.
I survived the day on autopilot. Math class? Gone in a blink. Gym? Somehow skipped entirely (a small mercy). The walk home was when everything shifted.
---
The old man was waiting.
He usually sold roasted peanuts at the corner store. I'd seen him a hundred times—always with his dusty coat and his bent hat. But this time, there were no peanuts. No stall. Just him, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like he'd been waiting for me specifically.
I slowed, earbuds half-in, one hand still clutching my phone. He smiled—a crooked, knowing sort of smile that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Feeling it yet?" he asked softly.
I stopped dead. "Feeling what?"
"The gaps," he whispered. "The slips. The missing bits."
My heart thudded in my chest. "The... skipped days?"
He nodded, his eyes sharp. "The ones you don't remember. The ones you aren't supposed to."
I stared. My mouth went dry. For weeks I'd been losing time, memories, entire days—and here was a total stranger who knew about it.
"Why is this happening to me?" I whispered. "Am I... am I sick? Or...?"
He leaned closer. His breath smelled like old cinnamon and dust. His voice dropped to a chilling murmur:
"Because you're not supposed to be here."
I felt the ground sway beneath me. "What does that mean? Not supposed to be here where?"
But he was already walking away—his tattered coat flapping in the wind. Within seconds, he was gone.
I stood frozen. Cars whizzed by. A distant dog barked. But I couldn't move. Couldn't think.
"Not supposed to be here," I whispered to myself.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed, staring at the soft glow of my phone screen, scrolling through pictures and messages from days I couldn't remember. There were photos of me—laughing, smiling, standing next to Lina at some cafe I didn't remember visiting. Videos of me cracking jokes I didn't recall telling. My own handwriting in notes and homework that felt like someone else's work.
It was real. All of it. But none of it belonged to me.
I sat by the window, knees pulled to my chest, and whispered the words over and over:
"Not supposed to be here."
I didn't know what they meant. I didn't know if I was imagining things or if I was unraveling completely. But deep down, something inside me knew—this wasn't random. This was happening for a reason.
And whatever that reason was... it was far from over.
---
To be continued...