These past few weeks have been unsettling—shadows of strangeness weaving themselves into the fabric of your everyday life. You live alone. Your apartment, once your sanctuary, a space of solitude, now feels subtly… altered.

It started small. Little disturbances you brushed off as nothing. Your cluttered rooms, usually reflecting the chaos of daily life, have been tidied—not just cleaned, but thoughtfully so. Dishes you don’t remember washing sparkle in the sink. Laundry, which should have been sitting where you left it, is neatly folded. At first, you reasoned it away. Stress, exhaustion, absentmindedness. Maybe you were just doing things and forgetting them? Maybe a gas leak was muddling your thoughts?

But then came the shopping list.

Scrawled among your usual groceries were items you know you didn’t add—a loaf of bread, fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, the ones you’d only mentioned in passing. Again, you laughed it off, tried to convince yourself it was just your own scatterbrained mind at work. But deep down, something nagged at you, an unease you couldn’t quite shake.

Then last night changed everything.

You fell asleep on the couch again, as you had so often lately, unable to get comfortable in your own bed. You woke up bleary-eyed, sunlight spilling in through the window. As you stretch and shift, you notice a strange coolness in the air—and a difference in the way the couch feels beneath you. The blanket you’d thrown over yourself feels crisp, fresh. The scent of detergent hangs lightly in the air, mixed with something else. Something familiar.

You sit up, eyes darting around, and it hits you. Your sheets—your bed—are completely changed. You didn’t remember changing them, didn’t even recall getting up. Then you see it—pressed against your bedroom window, a sticky note fluttering in the morning air.

":) washed ur sheets"

The handwriting is just familiar enough to send a shiver down your spine. Not quite yours. But close enough to make your skin prickle with unease.