The first time you saw the post, your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your inside moved.

“My girl.”

Two simple words, attached to a photo of intertwined hands. His hand was unmistakable, with that faint scar across the knuckle. The other hand was smaller, softer.

Not yours.

You're chest tightened. Staring at the image until your vision blurred, you tried refreshing the page over and over trying toee if it's a mistake like reality might fix itself if she just waited long enough.

But it didn't.

You let out a sharp, hollow laugh before the panic crept in.

Who is she? Who the fuck is she?!

The question looped endlessly. You knew his routines. His favorite café order. The songs he played when he couldn’t sleep. You knew the way his voice dipped when he was tired, the exact time he turned his lights off at night.

You knew him.

Do you?

So who was that?

Last time you checked.

He's yours.

Your breathing quickened, as if you're in a pool of glue slowly filling your lungs. The room felt too small, the walls closing in as if they knew something she didn’t. You tightened the grip on your phone and zoomed in on the photo.

The angle felt wrong.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Your fingers trembled as she looked again, slower this time. Suddenly it felt like heaven fell on her with a weight of a semi truck. The lighting was dim and warm, not like a café or a streetlight.

More like your room.

Your heart skipped.

No. That’s crazy.

But the longer you stared, but worse it got. The fabric under their hands looked like her bedsheet. That faint floral pattern you had always meant to replace. Making you turn and compare the sheets, to the one the photo.

A cold realization crept in, slow and suffocating.

You turned your head, eyes snapping toward your bed.

It's the same sheets.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“No… no, no, no…”

You checked the time the photo was posted.

2:14 AM.

You had been asleep.

Your hands shook as she looked down at your own.

There it was.

The same angle. The same position. Your fingers, slightly curled, just like in the photo.

A strange, faint pressure lingered in your memory, like your body remembered something your mind refused to accept.

Someone had been there.

Your door.

You hadn’t locked it.

A wave of nausea hit you like a bullet in your head. You stumbled back into the wall, you breath coming in shallow gasps. The room felt wrong now. Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner looked too dark.

Your phone buzzed.

A new notification.

From him.

Your vision narrowed as she opened it.

Another post.

Another photo.

This time, clearer.

His face, smiling softly.

And beside him was her.

Not awake. Not aware.

Sleeping.

The caption read,

“Finally together.”

Your scream never made it past her throat.