Aarav didn’t go to work the next day.
He didn’t call in sick.
Didn’t message.
Didn’t explain.
Because how do you explain something like this?
“I think there’s another version of me living inside missing minutes of time.”
He almost laughed at the thought.
Almost.
Instead, he sat at his desk.
A notebook open.
Pen in hand.
If something else was taking control… then he needed structure.
Boundaries.
Rules.
He wrote slowly. Carefully.
RULES
- Never stay alone without recording
- Sleep only when recording
- Keep track of time every minute
- Avoid mirrors
- Do not respond to anything said during missing time
He paused.
The last rule felt… strange.
As if he was writing it for someone else.
Aarav stared at the page.
Then added one more.
- YOU ARE AARAV. DO NOT FORGET.
He underlined it twice.
Hard enough that the pen nearly tore the paper.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“This is manageable.”
He set up his phone again.
Recording.
Different angle this time.
Facing the entire room.
No blind spots.
Hours passed.
Nothing happened.
No missing time.
No strange voice.
No smile.
For a moment—just a moment—Aarav felt relief.
Maybe it was stress.
Maybe he had imagined it.
Maybe—
He blinked.
The fan above him was spinning slower.
The sunlight had shifted across the floor.
And his throat felt dry.
The clock read 4:52 p.m.
Aarav’s stomach dropped.
He looked at the notebook.
The pen was no longer in his hand.
It was on the table.
Placed neatly.
“No…” he breathed.
He grabbed the phone.
Stopped the recording.
Replayed it immediately.
There he was.
Sitting.
Still.
Watching.
Just like before.
Then—
At 4:21 p.m.
He blinked.
And smiled.
Aarav clenched his jaw, gripping the phone tighter.
“Don’t… don’t do that…” he whispered.
On the screen, the other him stretched his arms slightly, like someone waking up after a good rest.
Comfortable.
At ease.
Like he belonged there.
Then his eyes shifted.
Not randomly.
Directly.
At the notebook.
Aarav’s breath caught.
The other him picked up the pen.
Turned the notebook toward himself.
And read the rules.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Aarav shook his head, panic rising again.
“No… don’t—”
On the screen, the other Aarav chuckled softly.
A sound that didn’t belong to him.
Then, calmly, he spoke.
“You think this helps?”
Aarav felt something inside him collapse.
The other Aarav tapped the pen lightly on the page.
Once.
Twice.
Then he crossed out Rule 4.
Avoid mirrors.
Aarav’s eyes widened.
“Don’t touch that…” he whispered, as if the past could hear him.
The video continued.
The other him leaned closer.
And for the first time—
He looked directly into the camera.
Not through it.
Into it.
“You still don’t understand, do you?”
Aarav’s breathing grew shallow.
The pen moved again.
This time, underlining something else.
YOU ARE AARAV. DO NOT FORGET.
The other Aarav stared at it for a moment.
Then smiled again.
And slowly… deliberately… added a single word.
“WHICH ONE?”
Aarav dropped the phone.
His hands had gone cold.
“No…”
His voice was barely a whisper now.
On the screen, the other him leaned back, satisfied.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Then he did something Aarav hadn’t expected.
He stood up.
Walked out of frame.
The room was empty.
The clock ticked.
The camera kept recording.
Minutes passed.
Aarav stared at the screen, frozen.
“Where did he go…” he whispered.
And then—
The camera shifted.
Not by accident.
Not falling.
Not slipping.
It was picked up.
The frame moved.
Slowly.
Smoothly.
Until it faced the mirror.
Aarav felt his heart stop.
Because in the mirror—
He could see him.
Standing there.
Looking directly back.
Not at the camera.
Not at the room.
At him.
And then—
The reflection raised its hand.
And waved.
The video cut.
Aarav didn’t scream.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Because something inside him had already understood.
This wasn’t about losing time anymore.
It was about sharing it.