Since I was little, something… weird kept happening to me.
I remember one time falling down the stairs — just a stupid accident, nothing serious. But when I woke up screaming, everything felt… off.
Not broken.
Not wrong.
Just… different.
It wasn't until later that I realized the world had changed.
I was in primary school when it really started to sink in.
One day, I swore our math class was on Thursday and history on Wednesday. The next morning, I showed up expecting math — only to find out it was computer class. And not just any computer class — it was Monday.
And Friday?
Gone.
Just like that.
No explanation. No schedule change announced. Just… rewritten.
The teacher was Mr. Kael, a legend among students for making every lesson feel like playing a game. We didn't do anything that day — just messed around on old laptops, surfing the internet like it was some kind of reward.
But that wasn't what unsettled me.
What unsettled me was how no one else noticed.
When I met up with my friends outside the classroom, they were confused.
"Why do you think the class was today?" one of them asked.
I blinked. "Wait… wasn't it always today?"
They laughed it off, thinking I was messing with them.
But I wasn't.
I swore we had had that class yesterday.
Only, now I couldn't remember what happened "yesterday" at all.
Like someone had taken my memories and shuffled them into a drawer labeled "Don't Ask."
At first, I thought I was going crazy.
Kids forget things all the time, right? Schedules change. Teachers get sick. It happens.
But then came the second incident.
It was the next month after the class schedule changed — or at least, what should have been the next month.
I woke up like normal.
Only… everything in my room was different.
Not just messy.
Not just rearranged.
Completely unfamiliar.
The posters on the walls weren't mine. The books on my shelf were titles I'd never heard of. Even the sheets on my bed were different — not the ones I'd gone to sleep with.
Some might think my mom came in and cleaned while I slept.
But I always kept my own room.
No one else touched my stuff.
I got up slowly, still groggy, and walked downstairs.
Then I saw her.
A woman sitting at the kitchen table.
She looked up when I entered.
Smiled.
"Good morning, sweetie. You're up early."
I blinked.
"Yeah... I guess."
She looked familiar.
Too familiar.
My mom .
But that wasn't possible.
Because this wasn't my mom.
This was someone else.
Someone who looked like her.
Talked like her.
Acted like her.
But wasn't.
And the worst part?
She didn't notice anything was wrong.
To her, this was normal.
Which meant…
Either I was losing it…
Or something else was going on.
Something I couldn't explain.
The incidents kept happening again and again.
One time, the world's colors were completely different. My whole vision of reality turned red — like someone had painted everything in shades of crimson and rust. I asked people around me what happened. They looked at me like I was crazy.
Said it had always been like that.
Other times, small things changed. A poster on my wall disappeared. A song I remembered never existed. Conversations I had one day never happened the next.
And every time, it revolved around me.
Like I was some kind of plaything for a god with too much free time.
When I reached the age of 28, it happened again.
I fell asleep at my desk — usual spot, same old chair, the hum of the city outside my window.
Closed my eyes for just a second.
Only to open them again…
…to see someone yelling at me.
"How many times do I have to tell you, bro? We need to finish this project as early as possible!"
The man in front of me—dressed in the same hoodie and wrinkled T-shirt I swore I hadn't seen before—looked annoyed, but not surprised. Like this was normal.
To him , it probably was.
I played along, like always.
You learn to do that after it happens enough times that you stop keeping count.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Just give me a second."
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You say that every time. You okay, man? You look like hell."
I glanced around.
Same office layout.
Same flickering fluorescent lights.
But the posters on the walls were different. The brand of coffee on my desk had changed. Even the keyboard I was using wasn't mine — it had a logo I didn't remember ever seeing before.
Again.
I exhaled slowly.
Another shift.
Not big.
Not dramatic.
Just enough to make it clear—again—that nothing in my life was stable.
"Hey," my coworker said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You zoning out again?"
I gave him a tired smile.
"Nah. Just tired."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Just don't space out when the client calls in tomorrow."
I nodded absently.
He turned back to his screen.
And I sat there.
Alone with the silence inside my head.
Wondering how long this version of my life would last.
As I finished my work, it was already night.
I walked out of the building, tired as hell, the city lights flickering like distant stars against the dark sky.
The streets were quieter than usual.
Cars passed now and then, their headlights cutting through the evening fog like slow-moving comets.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.
Just another day.
"Man... I really need to stop overworking," I muttered, pausing at the crossing. My body ached, my vision blurring at the edges. Another all-nighter. Another project finished just to be handed another.
The traffic light glared red—a bloody eye in the dark. I closed my own, savoring the brief break.
"Finally... a break."
A sharp BEEP sliced through the silence.
Too drained to care, I stepped forward—
—And the world exploded in light.
My eyes flew open. A truck's headlights swallowed the street, its horn screaming. I jerked toward the signal.
Red.
'No—that's impossible!'
Time crawled. The screech of tires. The stench of burning rubber. My last thought wasn't fear, but something darker.
"This... isn't how I die."
Then—impact.
Darkness.
And then... laughter.