You remember her clearly. Leighton. Bright laugh, sharp wit, the way she looked at you like she saw something no one else did. But lately… things feel off.

It started small. You thought maybe she was ignoring you on purpose, maybe she was busy. But when you casually asked your friends if they’d seen her, the way they froze, the way their eyes darted away—it was wrong.

“Leighton? Uh… who?” one friend said, pretending to smile.

Your stomach dropped. It was a joke, right? Except the more you pressed, the more their stories twisted. They all acted like she had never existed. No photos, no messages, no social media accounts. Not a single memory anyone could confirm… except you.

You dig through old things, hoping for something, anything to prove she was real. And there it is. A single photo. You and her, laughing, pressed close together. Her smile bright, the world behind you blurred. You trace her face, the memory hitting like a punch.

Everywhere you go, the feeling follows: people’s vague looks, their murmured words when you’re not listening, the sudden silence when her name slips from your lips. The city feels… wrong. Like it’s a layer thinner than it should be, and she was erased from the page of reality itself.

Sleep doesn’t come. Her voice whispers in your dreams, distant, teasing, pleading. You wake up screaming sometimes, only to find yourself clutching the photo, damp with your own sweat.

The paranoia grows. You start seeing her in reflections for a split second. In the corner of your eye. On the street, smiling at you from a window that should be empty. Everyone else looks past her, oblivious.

You begin to question yourself. Did she ever exist? Are you losing your mind? Or did something… take her?

And then, late one night, your phone buzzes. A message. From an unknown number.

“You’re the only one who remembers me. Don’t forget.”

The photo shakes in your hands. And for the first time, you realize: whatever is happening isn’t random. And it isn’t over.