Fragmented

Chapter 7: Fractures in Time

The next morning, Simon woke with a start, the remnants of a fitful sleep clinging to him like a fog. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake the feeling that something was off. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. It was the kind of silence that made his skin crawl, as if the very air around him was holding its breath.

The letter from the night before still lingered in his mind. You're closer than you think. But not close enough. What did it mean? And who had sent it? Simon had tried to rationalize it away, telling himself that it was just some prank, some sick joke. But the sinking feeling in his gut wouldn't go away.

As he got up and started his morning routine, something felt different. Simon couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was a subtle shift in the air—an almost imperceptible wrongness that followed him from room to room. He brushed his teeth, got dressed, and made his way to the kitchen, trying to focus on the mundane actions of his day. But every time he looked away, he had the odd sensation that time had skipped ahead, as though moments were slipping through his fingers like sand.

He paused in front of the fridge, staring at the note again. It was still there, taunting him. Why can't I remember writing this?

A sharp knock on the door startled him. Simon flinched, his heart leaping into his throat. He checked the time—9:30 a.m. Who would be knocking this early?

Cautiously, Simon made his way to the door and peered through the peephole. On the other side was a woman, mid-30s, with short dark hair and a look of faint recognition in her eyes. Simon frowned, feeling a flicker of familiarity, but he couldn't place her.

He opened the door slowly, his muscles tense. "Can I help you?"

The woman's smile was forced, tight at the edges. "Simon, it's me. Elise."

The name sent a jolt through him. Elise. It sounded familiar—too familiar. But Simon was certain he'd never met this woman before.

"Sorry, I think you've got the wrong person," Simon said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Her brow furrowed, and the smile faltered. "No, Simon, it's me. We've known each other for years." She laughed lightly, as if expecting him to join in on the joke. "Come on, you don't remember?"

Simon's heart began to pound in his chest. There was no way. He didn't know her, did he? He searched his mind for any recollection of her face, her voice, anything. But nothing came. Only that strange feeling of familiarity, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

"I really don't," he said, stepping back slightly. "I'm sorry."

Elise's smile faded completely now, replaced by a look of concern. "Simon... we had dinner last week. You texted me yesterday."

Simon froze. Had he? His mind raced, but no memory surfaced. He hadn't texted her—he was sure of it. Or was he? A brief flash of doubt crept in, and Simon's grip on the door tightened.

"I think you've got the wrong guy," he said, his voice firmer this time. "I've never met you."

Her eyes searched his face for a long moment, as if she were trying to see past the words. Then, without another word, she turned and walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly as she disappeared around the corner. Simon stood frozen for a moment, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

He slammed the door shut, his mind spinning. Who was she? Why did she think she knew me?

Simon sat down on the couch, his breathing uneven. His phone buzzed from the coffee table, and he picked it up, hesitating before unlocking it. He scrolled through his recent texts, dread pooling in his stomach. And there it was—a message from an unknown number, sent just yesterday evening.