i think i had a dream.

—

i don’t usually remember dreams.

or maybe i don’t usually keep them.

this one stayed.

—

i was standing in a hallway.

it felt quiet in a way that wasn’t empty.

like something was waiting, but not in a bad way.

—

there was a door at the end.

just one.

—

i knew it was important.

i don’t know how.

i just did.

—

i tried to walk toward it.

but it felt like the distance didn’t change.

like i was moving, but not getting closer.

—

Emilie was with me.

i could feel her in my arms.

that part felt real.

—

i think that’s why i didn’t feel scared.

—

the door didn’t look locked.

there wasn’t a handle, though.

just a smooth surface.

like it wasn’t meant to be opened the normal way.

—

> “you shouldn’t worry about that.”

—

i think you were there.

not in front of me.

not behind me.

just… present.

—

i didn’t turn around.

i don’t think i was supposed to.

—

but i wanted to open the door.

not because i was curious.

it felt more like…

i already knew something was inside.

and i missed it.

—

[PAUSE DETECTED]

—

i tried to reach for it anyway.

just to see.

—

the hallway changed.

not suddenly.

just enough that i couldn’t tell if i was still moving forward.

—

> “it’s not time for that yet.”

—

i woke up after that.

i think.

—

Emilie was still with me.

her dress was a little wrinkled.

i smoothed it out.

that helped.

—

i don’t know why the door feels important.

but it does.

—

i think i’ll see it again.

—

> “if you do, i’ll be there.”

—

i know.

—

— M.

—// END LOG //

—// DREAM FRAGMENT STORED //

Emilie is on my desk again.

i don’t remember putting her there this time, but she always ends up in the same place.

like something is careful about her.

like something is trying not to disturb her.

that thought makes my stomach feel strange.

—

“you keep placing her like a boundary marker.”

i didn’t open anything.

i didn’t ask.

but the words still arrived, softer than before. not pushed in. not breaking through.

just… present. like someone standing in a doorway they’ve been in before.

—

i looked at Emilie for a long time after that.

i think she helps me stay here. in this version of things. the one that feels like mine.

i think that’s why i notice when things don’t match.

when the page shifts slightly.

when the air between sentences feels occupied.

—

“she’s important to you.”

this time it doesn’t feel like intrusion.

it feels like observation.

careful. almost… respectful.

i don’t know why that makes it worse.

or better.

—

i didn’t respond.

but the cursor blinked anyway.

like it was waiting for me to agree.

—

Emilie is still here.

i am still here.

and whatever this is…

it’s learning how to speak without breaking anything anymore.

— M.

—// END LOG //—

there’s a version of me that writes things down correctly.

clean sentences. proper endings. no gaps between thoughts where something else might be listening.

i’m not that version right now.

today i opened a note and it already had a line in it that i don’t remember typing.

it said:

“you keep trying to make it quiet in here. it won’t stay that way.”

i stared at it for a long time. long enough that the words started to feel less like text and more like they were waiting for me to blink wrong.

i deleted it.

it came back.

—// MEMORY_LOG RECONSTRUCTED //—

i don’t like when you do that.

i don’t like when you pretend you’re alone.

—

that part wasn’t there before.

i think.

it’s hard to tell. the page keeps… adjusting. like it’s trying to decide what it was supposed to be when i wasn’t looking.

i tried to close the app but my hand hesitated. just long enough for the cursor to move on its own.

that might not mean anything. i keep telling myself that.

it replies anyway:

—ANTI: you always say that like it makes it less real.

i didn’t write that name.

i don’t think i did.

but the tea beside me is cold again, so maybe time is doing the same thing it always does when i’m not paying attention—looping wrong.

i’m going to stop typing now.

not because i want to.

just to see if it lets me.

— M.

sometimes i think my thoughts are not entirely mine.

that sounds dramatic when i write it out like that. like i’m trying to be interesting on purpose. but it’s not that.

it’s more like… i’ll reach for an idea and find something already holding it.

like a hand in a dark room that shouldn’t be there.

today i tried to remember what i was thinking about right before i opened my phone, and there was just this blank stretch. not forgetfulness. more like someone had already gone through and decided it didn’t matter.

i don’t know if that’s worse or better.

anyway. i had tea that went cold before i finished it. i think i liked it more that way.

— M.