Lina didn't leave her apartment that day.
She told herself it was the rain.
But the rain had stopped by noon.
Still, the windows stayed shut. Curtains half-drawn. Silence deep enough to press against her skin.
She made coffee but didn't drink it. Kept the cup close just for the warmth in her hands. Proof she was still real. Still here. Still occupying space she could claim as hers.
Maybe.
The lanyard lay where she left it: edge of the counter, photo face down. But it didn't feel like it was waiting. More like it had finished something.
The phrase echoed in her head:
"This isn't how you wore it."
What was the right way?
What version of her had walked different, stood different, lived different?
She finally turned the photo over again.
It wasn't glitchy. Not digitally altered. Not fake.
Just wrong.
Not enough to scream — just enough to whisper.
A version of her paused mid-exit, mid-sentence, mid-something she didn't remember starting. There was a pen mark on the collar in the photo.
She touched her own shirt, instinctively.
No mark.
She took the old lanyard and clipped it around her neck.
A chill pulsed through her spine, subtle but undeniable — as if air had moved too fast behind her.
She turned.
Nothing.
But the hallway light was on.
She hadn't touched that switch all day.
Back in her room, her phone was blinking.
Not ringing.
Not a message.
Just blinking.
The screen read: "4:44 — Set"
Set what?
She hadn't programmed any alarms.
She didn't touch the phone.
It blinked again.
This time, a different message slid across the screen — not as a notification, but as part of the wallpaper:
"You said you'd come."
The sentence felt like it had teeth.
She didn't say anything out loud, but her voice still cracked in her throat.
"Come where?"
No answer.
But the silence pressed in harder, like it was trying to answer with its own weight.
Later — maybe an hour, maybe three — she checked the CCTV footage again. From the building lobby this time. She'd never felt the need to look at it before.
At 4:44, the screen flickered.
Not off.
Just... sideways.
As if the image bent. As if someone walked past too close to the lens.
She saw movement.
A shoulder.
A hood.
But the frame reset before she could pause it.
Just one still image remained — corrupted, blurred at the edges.
But unmistakable.
The reflection in the lobby glass showed two people.
One was her.
The other had no face.
Just a blur, smudged like breath on glass.
She printed the frame. Taped it to the fridge with trembling fingers.
Proof.
Or not.
That night, she put the lanyard in a drawer and closed it.
Locked it.
Just in case.
But when she lay down, she felt something heavy around her neck.
She reached up.
Nothing was there.
Only her own skin.
Cold.
Still hers.
For now.
ChatGPT a dit :
Très bien. Voici une extension d'environ 700 mots pour ton Chapitre 6 — This Isn't How You Wore It, conçue pour s'enchaîner de manière fluide avec la fin actuelle (où Lina ressent la présence du lanyard qu'elle a pourtant rangé).
Ce prolongement reste dans le même ton : introspectif, anxieux, lent, presque surnaturel sans jamais l'être ouvertement.
➕ Extension – à insérer après :
"Only her own skin.Cold.Still hers.For now."
The night didn't end. It just stretched.
She thought of sleep like a myth — some privilege she'd once had and given away too easily. Now, even blinking felt like betrayal. Like if she closed her eyes too long, the room might rearrange itself again. Or someone else might be standing there when she opened them.
At 2:17 AM, she sat up.
There had been no sound.
Not from outside, not from within.
Just the sensation — that hum in the blood — of not being alone.
She went to the kitchen. Not for water. Not even out of thirst. Just to move. Just to break whatever spell the stillness was casting.
That's when she saw it.
The can.
It wasn't the same one. She'd thrown the others away — lined them up in the bin herself. She remembered. Had double-checked.
But now there it was. On the counter. Right where she always placed it after he left.
Still cold.
Condensation clinging to the aluminum like it had just arrived.
She stepped closer.
The top had been opened.
Half-drunk.
But not by her.
And the strangest part?
There was no label. No brand. No lemon. No tea. Just silver and a faint, unreadable symbol like something etched and then rubbed almost away.
She touched it.
It was warm.
She didn't scream. There was no room in her throat for sound.
Instead, she took the can and walked it to the window.
The city outside was dim — not quiet, but muffled. Like the world had been wrapped in cotton. Even the neon signs across the street seemed slower, dimmer.
Then her phone buzzed.
Not a message. Not a call.
Just... static.
Like a pulse.
It stopped as soon as she turned toward it.
On screen:"Found it."
That was it.
No sender.
No app.
No context.
Just "Found it."
She didn't reply.
Didn't delete.
She placed the phone face down and stepped away.
Back in her room, the drawer was open.
The one with the lanyard.
Even though she'd locked it. Even though the key was still in her pocket.
Inside the drawer, something new sat beneath the folded badge:
A page.
Printed. Faintly yellowed.
Like from a scanner — but distorted.
It was a photo.
Her, again.
But not the same image from earlier.
In this one, she was looking directly at the camera. Not surprised. Not scared.
Almost... resigned.
Behind her, in the blurry background of the image, someone stood out of focus.
A tall figure.
Head turned.
But unmistakably him.
His hand rested on her shoulder.
Her expression didn't fight it.
Didn't flinch.
As if she'd known he was there the whole time.
As if she'd let him in.
She stared at it for a long time. Not trying to understand.
Just trying to remember.
Something — a fragment — flickered behind her eyes.
The smell of static.
The taste of rain.
A whisper in a stairwell that she'd once tried to forget.
Something about music.
And a sentence.
A question.
Soft, familiar, impossible:
"Wasn't this yours first?"
When her alarm rang at 6:03 — the time that had once meant nothing — she didn't flinch.
She was already awake.
And the window was already open.