I woke up with ink on my fingers.
Smudged.
Still damp.
The pen was open beside me,
its nib stained black like it had been screaming silently all night.
And on the desk—
a leather-bound book.
Thick.
Heavy.
Too warm for paper.
The title read:
"Refractions of Me"
And underneath,
my name.
Except it wasn't my handwriting.
It was too elegant.
Too precise.
Like it had been written by someone who knew exactly what they were.
I didn't.
I opened the book.
Page one:
"This isn't the beginning.
You've already read that part.
Stop pretending."
I flipped forward.
More of my name.
More of my voice.
But saying things I've never said.
Couldn't have said.
It detailed memories I never lived.
Shame I'd never confessed.
Places I've never been…
with smells and textures too accurate to be made up.
And then I reached a page
where the ink pulsed.
Literally.
Like it was breathing.
It read:
"He's reading this page now.
He's about to put the book down."
So I did.
But the next morning…
a new chapter had appeared.
Even though I hadn't touched the pen.
Even though I locked the book.
This chapter ended with:
"Tomorrow, he tries to burn it."
I laughed.
Then I tried to burn it.
It didn't catch.
The flame bent away from the paper
like a shy child avoiding eye contact.
I took the book to a therapist.
She opened it.
Paused.
Closed it gently.
Said:
"I'm sorry.
I already have one of these."
Now, I'm afraid to sleep.
Because every time I do,
the book grows.
It writes what I'll think.
What I'll feel.
What I'll do next week.
And every time I try to defy it…
the book corrects the memory.
Like I'm the story.
And it's the one reading me.
I haven't opened it in two days.
But last night,
I dreamed of the last page.
It was blank,
except for one sentence:
"Thank you for letting me use your hands."