Lucas wakes up on the ground with the clear feeling he was about to answer something.
The word is still climbing his throat when he opens his eyes—and disappears before it exists.
He stays still for a second that lasts too long, waiting for the conversation to continue.
It doesn't.
The thought arrives broken, like a sentence cut off mid-page.
What was I going to say?
He tries to grab the memory fast, the way you chase the end of a dream before it fades.
Nothing comes back.
Only the uneasy certainty that someone was standing in front of him seconds ago.
Lucas inhales too quickly. The air rushes in like his body forgot how to breathe.
His heart starts racing without warning.
Why am I on the ground?
The question comes late, but it lands hard.
He plants his hands on the asphalt and slowly sits up, hoping the movement will unlock the memory.
It doesn't.
He looks at his clothes, his hands, the pavement around him, like a clue might be hiding in the most obvious details.
Nothing looks wrong.
That should be comforting.
It isn't.
The feeling of a cut-off conversation stays lodged in his chest.
Like someone hung up mid-sentence.
He stands too fast, like staying on the ground would make this real.
His head feels heavy for a second.
The world steadies right after.
Too fast.
He accepts that too fast.
A faint pressure tightens in his chest as he straightens his shirt.
Small. Persistent.
Like forgetting an important appointment.
His hand slips into his pocket before he decides to reach for it.
The phone is already in his palm when the thought catches up.
The screen lights up.
No missed calls.
No urgent messages.
Nothing explaining why his heart won't slow down.
Still, the sentence appears.
I had something important today.
He waits for the memory to follow.
It doesn't.
He pockets the phone and starts walking.
His steps find the path without asking permission.
Too automatic.
He notices on the third step.
Why do I know where I'm going?
The question hangs unanswered.
He tries to recall the last few minutes.
There's a gap.
Short.
Too clean.
Like a page ripped out.
He tries not to think about it.
Keeps walking.
He crosses the street without remembering to look both ways.
His body did it on its own.
That should scare him more than it does.
Why am I not more worried?
The thought appears and fades before it grows.
He keeps walking.
The route feels shorter today.
Or maybe longer.
Hard to tell.
His building's door appears before he notices the last corner.
The key is already between his fingers.
He doesn't remember grabbing it.
The lock turns.
The door opens.
He steps inside.
Air fills his lungs automatically.
The word rises, ready.
"—I'm home—"
His voice dies before it's born.
Silence cuts the sentence off at the root.
Lucas freezes with his hand on the doorknob.
Why was I going to say that?
He doesn't know.
He closes the door slowly.
His shoes stop in their usual spot before he thinks about where to put them.
His backpack slips off his shoulder and lands on the couch with the precision of a repeated habit.
He takes two steps into the living room.
Stops.
Not a decision.
An interruption.
A large blanket is folded over the back of the couch.
Too big for one person.
Extra pillows fill the corners, arranged like they mark two fixed spots.
On the side table, a diffuser releases a soft, steady scent, like it was turned on recently.
Lucas just stands there.
Too long.
Why do I have this?
The question comes easily.
He stays still.
Another one follows, slower.
Since when do I use scented candles?
The discomfort grows too fast.
And then the thought finally forms completely:
Why are there so many couple things in my living room if I don't remember having a girlfriend… or a wife?
The silence of the apartment doesn't answer.
The feeling is strange, almost physical—like stepping into a room prepared for someone who hasn't arrived yet.
Or who should be here.
He steps away before the thought goes further.
He walks into the kitchen.
Opens the fridge without knowing why.
Closes it right away.
He stands at the table.
Two glasses sit side by side.
Not separated. Not forgotten. Not random.
Too close.
He keeps staring.
Why two?
The question won't leave.
He pulls a chair slightly out and pushes it back without realizing.
The gesture is automatic.
Too familiar.
Like something repeated every day.
The pressure in his chest grows.
A new idea forms slowly, trying to organize the logic.
All of this means I live… or lived… with someone.
The thought continues before he can stop it.
But who?
The question feels heavier.
Another follows right behind it.
Did this person… die?
The air feels colder for a moment.
The idea doesn't fit.
It doesn't explain the feeling of recent presence.
He backs away from the table before his mind goes further.
The hallway feels short.
The bedroom appears before he decides to enter.
He goes in anyway.
Two pillows are lined up.
Parallel.
The space between them is too small to be random.
The mattress dips slightly in the center, like the weight has been shared every night in the same pattern.
Lucas stands still.
The air isn't neutral here.
A soft scent lingers in the pillows.
Delicate.
Feminine.
Recent.
Like it was left this morning.
His heart starts racing.
Logic collapses.
If it's recent… then it isn't the past.
If it isn't the past… then it's now.
The thought explodes before he can stop it:
Who's living with me?
The bedroom silence doesn't answer.
And the next question arrives on its own.
Colder. Heavier.
Where did this person go?
The pressure in his chest tightens too fast.
Something is wrong.
Very wrong.
The thought tries to come back.
The interrupted sentence tries to return.
The unfinished conversation tries to return.
Nothing comes back.
Only the feeling that something just left his life…
and he never noticed when it happened.