The changes began so subtly I almost missed them.
It started with my mother's call. Her voice was warm, pleased.
"You've been so thoughtful lately," she said. "Messaging me to take my pills, reminding me about the cold."
I paused."Did I?"
"Yesterday evening," she said. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already."
I murmured something reassuring and hung up.
I didn't remember sending it.
The text was there in our chat—my words, my tone—but the memory of typing them was gone.
That night, I watched Luna mop the floor, earbuds in, moving without sound.
Maybe I'd just forgotten.
—
Then there was the morning I overheard her on the phone.
Her back was to me, voice soft, soothing.
"Don't worry," she said. "Everything will be fine. Just relax."
My hand stilled on the door.
They were my words—the exact phrasing, the same gentle drop at the end.
I left without a sound, but the echo stayed with me.
—
After that, I noticed it everywhere.
Daniel would say, "It's not that important," or "Take it slow"—phrases that used to be mine.
I told myself it was coincidence. Influence.
Until the day Luna said it first.
She was in the kitchen, wearing loungewear like mine, hair tied back like mine.The light fell across her shoulders, her shadow a faint twin on the wall.
She wiped the counter and said, lightly,
"Let's just take it slow."
Something cold slipped between my ribs.
For a second, I couldn't tell—if Daniel walked in now,who would he see?
I pushed the thought away.
It didn't matter.The month was almost over.In a few more days, she would be gone from my life.