Devendra didn't remember leaving school.
He remembered standing in the cafeteria—
then nothing.
When awareness returned, he was walking.
Not choosing to.
Just moving.
The street outside his house looked familiar, but something was off—like a place remembered from a dream instead of lived in. Colors felt washed, edges slightly blurred, as if reality had been rubbed too hard with an eraser.
He stopped walking.
His feet didn't.
That's when panic finally hit—not loud, not explosive—but cold and exact, slicing through him.
"See?"
"You're learning."
His body turned the corner on its own.
Devendra whispered, barely moving his lips.
"Learning what?"
The voice answered immediately.
"That you're not the one deciding anymore."
Home
His house door was open.
That alone was wrong.
Devendra stepped inside and smelled food—warm, familiar. His mother's voice came from the kitchen, normal, tired, real.
"Devendra? You're late."
Late?
He checked the clock.
9:11 PM.
His chest tightened.
"I—" His voice cracked. "I was at school."
She laughed softly, not unkindly.
"School ended hours ago."
She turned toward him.
Paused.
Her expression shifted—not fear, not anger—but confusion, like she was trying to remember where she'd seen him before.
"Did you… change your hair?"
Devendra froze.
He rushed to the mirror.
The reflection punched the air out of his lungs.
His hair wasn't fully white—
but it was fading, strand by strand, like color being slowly deleted. His eyes looked older. Sharper. Hollowed.
Not injured.
Just… used.
"Time isn't fair inside you."
He staggered back.
"This isn't happening," he muttered.
The reflection didn't copy him immediately this time.
It smiled first.
Memory Errors
That night, sleep came without permission.
And when he woke—
He was fifteen again.
Then seventeen.
Then twelve.
His room changed subtly each time. Posters appeared and vanished. Scratches on the desk moved. Objects existed that he didn't remember owning—but felt emotionally attached to.
He checked his phone.
Messages from people he didn't recognize.
Photos of himself he didn't remember taking.
In some, he was smiling.
That terrified him most.
"You lived so many versions."
"You just don't get to keep them."
He clutched his head.
"Stop messing with me."
The voice leaned closer—not louder, not softer—closer.
"I'm not messing with you."
"I'm sorting you."
The Next Day
At school, things got worse.
People greeted him like they knew him well.
Too well.
"Devendra, you're back already?"
"I thought you transferred."
"Didn't you say you hated this place?"
Every sentence contradicted the last.
Teachers hesitated before saying his name—like it had changed recently and they were afraid of getting it wrong.
During attendance, the teacher frowned.
"There's a correction here," she said.
"Devendra… or is it Dev—"
The chalk snapped.
Everyone turned.
Devendra was standing.
He didn't remember getting up.
"They're losing you."
"Soon, I won't have to share."
His hands were shaking, but not from fear.
From absence.
Like something essential had been quietly removed.
The Truth Slipping Out
In the bathroom mirror, words appeared on the fogged glass.
Not written.
Reflected.
YOU ARE A PLACE, NOT A PERSON
Devendra backed away, heart pounding.
"No," he whispered. "I'm real."
The reflection tilted its head.
"You were."
"Now you're where I stay."
The lights flickered.
For a split second, he saw himself layered—
dozens of versions overlapping, all exhausted, all hollow, all unfinished.
And behind them—
Her.
Not fully visible.
Never fully visible.
But smiling.
Devendra walked out of the bathroom knowing one thing with horrifying clarity:
This wasn't about fear anymore.
This wasn't even about survival.
It was about erasure.
And whatever was inside him wasn't trying to break him.
It was trying to replace him.