I don't have Face ID.
I disabled it the first week I bought my phone. I don't like the idea of my face being stored somewhere, copied, mapped, remembered. Passcodes feel safer. Numbers can be changed. Faces can't.
That's why I noticed it immediately.
I woke up to light.
Not the soft grey of early morning, not a streetlamp leaking through the curtains—but the sharp, rectangular glow of my phone screen on the bedside table.
2:10 AM.
The screen was unlocked.
(That's not possible.)
I lay still for a moment, listening. The apartment was quiet in the way only nighttime can be—no cars, no neighbours, just the hum of the fridge and the faint ringing in my ears that came with exhaustion.
My body felt heavy, like it always did lately, as if sleep clung to me longer than it should.
I reached for my phone.
The home screen stared back at me. No notifications. No missed calls. No apps open. Just… awake.
(Maybe I forgot to lock it.)
I checked my screen time. Last interaction: 2:17 AM.
Current time: 2:14.
My stomach tightened.
I was sure I'd been asleep.
I locked the phone and set it face down, telling myself it was nothing. Muscle memory. A half-dream.
The kind of thing that happens when your body is tired, and your brain fills in gaps without asking permission.
I turned over and closed my eyes.
Two minutes later, the light came back on.
2:17 AM.
Exactly.
This time, I sat up.
My phone wasn't just unlocked. The Notes app was open.
A blank page stared back at me, the cursor blinking patiently at the top, as if it had been waiting.
(I didn't open that.)
I picked up the phone, my fingers cold against the glass. The note had no title. No text. But at the bottom, the keyboard was still active.
Then, without warning, letters began to appear.
Slow. Deliberate.
"You're awake"
I dropped the phone.
It clattered onto the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. My heart hammered against my ribs, sharp and painful, the way it had been doing more often lately.
I pressed a hand to my chest and counted my breaths, the way my doctor had taught me.
(In. Out. Don't panic. Don't be stupid.)
After a moment, I leaned over the bed and picked the phone up again.
The screen was dark.
Locked.
No open apps. No note. Nothing.
I stared at my reflection in the black glass—pale skin, shadows under my eyes, hair sticking out in directions I didn't remember sleeping in.
(You imagined it.)
That explanation slid easily into place, too easily. I wanted it to be true. I needed it to be true.
I plugged my phone into the charger, shoved it into the drawer of my bedside table, and shut it hard.
"Enough," I whispered to the empty room.
I lay back down, forcing my eyes closed, forcing my body to relax. Sleep eventually pulled me under, heavy and dreamless.
When I woke again, sunlight filtered through the curtains.
Morning.
For a few blessed seconds, I felt foolish. Calm. Embarrassed, even. Nighttime paranoia. That was all. The brain does strange things when it's sick and tired and alone.
I reached for my phone.
It was already out of the drawer.
Resting on the bedside table.
Unlocked.
The Notes app was open again.
This time, there was more than one line.
"You looked so tired last night. I didn't want to wake you"
My mouth went dry.
(That's not funny.)
My fingers trembled as I scrolled. At the bottom of the screen, a timestamp blinked quietly.
2:17 AM.
I checked my settings with shaking hands. Face ID: off. Fingerprint: not enabled. Auto-unlock: disabled. No connected devices. No shared accounts.
No explanation.
As I stared at the message, another line appeared beneath it.
Typed slowly. Carefully.
Like whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wanted to make sure I was watching.
"I'll be more careful tonight."
I locked the phone.
But even as the screen went dark, a thought settled deep in my chest, cold and certain.
(It already knows when I'm asleep.)
And somehow—
(It knows me.)