I didn't follow Raghav.
That was the hardest part.
Every instinct in my body screamed to watch him until he disappeared safely into normal life. To make sure Tomorrow didn't change its mind. To make sure the world didn't reach back and take something else from him.
But I stayed where I was.
Because that's what letting go actually means.
The walk home felt longer than usual, like the streets were stretching just enough to make me feel the distance. Every face I passed blurred into sameness. Everyone existed so easily.
I envied them.
In my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and sat on the floor, back against the couch, staring at nothing. The mirror-version of me stood in the reflection across the room, arms crossed, quiet.
"You didn't hesitate," she said finally.
"I did," I replied. "Just not where you could see it."
She nodded. "That's worse."
I laughed softly. It came out wrong.
I expected to feel relief.
Stability restored. Cost accepted.
That's what Tomorrow had said.
But my chest felt heavier than it had before, like I'd taken something out of the world and left the space unfilled.
I picked up my phone.
No messages.
No warnings.
No rules.
That scared me more than constant surveillance.
At 8:19 p.m., I opened my laptop.
I don't know why.
I wasn't planning to search for anything specific, but my fingers moved on their own. Muscle memory, maybe. Or something deeper.
I typed his name.
Raghav.
Nothing unusual came up. No articles. No obituaries. No digital ghosts.
Just a normal social media profile.
Private.
Profile picture blurred.
Last active: Today.
Alive.
That mattered.
I closed the laptop and leaned my head back against the couch.
The mirror-version of me sat down beside me in the reflection.
"You're quieter," she observed.
"I'm tired," I said.
"Of running?"
"Of choosing who gets hurt."
She studied me for a long moment.
"You know this won't be the last time."
I swallowed. "I know."
Silence stretched between us.
Then she spoke again, softer.
"He still feels you."
I looked up sharply. "What?"
"Not as memory," she clarified. "As absence. As something unresolved."
"That's not how erasure works."
"That's how partial erasure works," she corrected. "You didn't remove yourself cleanly. You asked Tomorrow for mercy."
I closed my eyes.
"Mercy isn't stable," she continued. "It leaves residue."
A knock sounded at my door.
I froze.
The mirror-version of me went still.
"Don't answer," she whispered.
I hadn't moved anyway.
Another knock.
Gentler this time.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
I stared at it for a full ten seconds before answering.
What do you want now?
The reply came slower than usual.
> Observation continues.
You exceeded expectation today.
I felt sick.
By hurting someone I cared about?
> By choosing containment over self-preservation.
I clenched my jaw.
You call that expectation?
> We call it data.
The knock came again.
My heart hammered.
Someone's at my door, I typed.
Is this you?
A pause.
Then:
> No.
Cold slid down my spine.
The mirror-version of me stood.
"Anshu," she whispered. "Whatever you erased… it didn't erase everything."
The knock came a third time.
I stood slowly and walked to the door, each step heavy.
I looked through the peephole.
No one was there.
But taped to my door was a piece of paper.
Plain.
White.
Folded once.
I opened the door just long enough to grab it and slam it shut again.
My hands shook as I unfolded the paper.
Four words, written in unfamiliar handwriting:
I forgot your face.
My breath caught.
Below it, smaller:
But not the feeling.
I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, paper clutched in my fist.
The mirror-version of me knelt beside me in the reflection.
"You saved him," she said gently.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
"And now?" I whispered.
She met my eyes.
"Now you live with what couldn't be erased."
Outside, the city carried on.
Tomorrow watched.
And somewhere out there, a boy who shouldn't remember me was missing something he couldn't name.