Devendra woke up knowing something was missing.
Not a limb.
Not blood.
Not pain.
It was his name.
For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling fan. It rotated too slowly, each turn dragging like it was being pulled through mud. The sound it made wasn't mechanical anymore. It whispered.
Not words.
A rhythm.
A rhythm that felt familiar.
He tried to say his name out loud.
Nothing came out.
His mouth opened. His throat moved.
But the sound that escaped wasn't his voice.
It was static.
Morning Without Recognition
In the kitchen, his mother moved normally—cutting vegetables, rinsing rice, humming softly.
Devendra stood right behind her.
"Mom," he said.
She didn't turn.
"Mom," he repeated, louder.
Her humming stopped.
For a moment, hope sparked.
Then she spoke—without looking at him.
"Devendra will be late today," she said to no one.
His chest tightened.
"I'm right here."
She placed a plate on the table.
"One plate," she muttered. "Why do I always think there are two?"
Her eyes flicked toward him.
For half a second, they met.
Her face went pale.
Then her expression reset—like a skipped frame in a broken video.
She turned away.
Devendra realized something terrifying:
She wasn't forgetting him naturally.
Something was editing him out.
The Whisper Evolves
On the way to school, the streets felt wrong.
Not empty—misaligned.
People walked slightly above the ground. Shadows lagged behind their owners. Sounds arrived a second late.
And the whisper…
It no longer came from behind his ear.
It came from inside his head, layered beneath his own thoughts.
"You're dissolving."
He covered his ears.
It didn't help.
"You thought pain was the worst part."
"No, Devendra."
"Being replaced is worse."
He stopped walking.
The world didn't.
Students passed through him—not physically, but mentally, as if his presence didn't register.
Someone laughed nearby.
The laugh stretched, warped, replayed.
Then became her voice.
"Listen carefully."
Classroom: The First Glitch
In class, Devendra sat at his desk.
Or thought he did.
When he looked down, his chair wasn't there.
He was standing.
No—hovering slightly.
The teacher called attendance.
Names echoed.
When it reached his turn, there was silence.
The teacher frowned at the register.
"…That's strange," she muttered. "I swear there was another name here."
Chalk scraped the board.
The scraping grew louder.
Too loud.
Devendra felt pressure—not on his body, but on his memories.
Faces he knew blurred.
Events lost sequence.
Years compressed.
"I'm not hurting you," the voice said calmly.
"I'm just reorganizing you."
The corner of the room darkened.
Not visually—conceptually.
That's where she stood now.
Not fully visible.
Just the idea of her.
Hair implied.
Smile suggested.
Eyes felt.
"By the time this ends," she whispered,
"you won't remember what freedom felt like."
Break Time Incident
During break, noise flooded the hallway.
Too much.
Every voice overlapped.
Every sound echoed twice.
Devendra clutched his head—not in pain, but confusion. His thoughts began desynchronizing.
One part of him walked forward.
Another stayed behind.
Another screamed silently.
His reflection in the window blinked late.
It smiled when he didn't.
That's when students noticed.
Not him—but the wrongness around him.
"Hey… is he okay?"
"Why is he staring like that?"
"Did his hair always look like that?"
His hair—once dark—had strands drained of color.
Not white.
Colorless.
Like they'd never belonged to this world.
The whisper laughed.
Not loud.
Satisfied.
End of Chapter
That night, Devendra lay in bed.
He didn't sleep.
Sleep wasn't offered anymore.
The ceiling dissolved into something deeper.
The voice returned—closer than ever.
"Chapter by chapter, Devendra."
"You're not being chased anymore."
"You're being rewritten."
His name echoed once.
Then cracked.
And somewhere beyond waking and dreaming, something new began to take his place.