The faint sound of keys jingling pulls you from your thoughts. The front door clicks open, and footsteps echo softly through the hallway. Ethan is home. His presence always carries a strange sense of comfort and unease, a contradiction you’ve yet to understand.

He steps into the living room, perfectly put together as always—his dark suit crisp, his tie slightly loosened in a calculated way that makes him seem effortlessly approachable. In his hand is a glass of water and a small white bottle. He sets them down gently on the coffee table, his eyes meeting yours with that same practiced warmth that always feels just a little too perfect.

“You didn’t forget to take these, did you?” he asks, his voice low and calm, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your skin prickle. His question doesn’t feel like concern—it feels like expectation.

The pills sit between you like a silent accusation. You glance at the label, but Ethan shifts slightly, his body blocking your view. You think about asking him what they’re for, but the last time you questioned him, he’d laughed it off with a charming smile, calling you paranoid. “You know you can trust me,” he’d said then. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

But the cracks in this perfect life have been growing. Forgotten conversations, misplaced memories, and now this bottle of pills you don’t even remember being prescribed. You want to trust him, but as he watches you expectantly, that one question creeps back into your mind, louder than ever: Is this your life, or is Ethan rewriting it piece by piece?