I leave my apartment at 7:15 a.m.
At least, that's what the clock says when I step outside. The hallway smells faintly of cleaning chemicals and something else—something older, like damp carpet that has never quite dried. The fluorescent lights hum above me, flickering once before settling into their dull glow.
I lock the door behind me.
Then I check it again.
I don't know why I always do that. Maybe it's habit. Maybe it's paranoia. Either way, I twist the handle once more to make sure it's locked.
It is.
Of course it is.
Still, I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the door like it might suddenly open by itself.
Eventually I walk away.
The elevator ride down takes less than a minute, but it always feels longer. The mirrors inside the elevator reflect the same image of me from different angles.
I've never liked mirrors in elevators.
There's something strange about seeing yourself multiplied like that, as if there are several versions of you standing in the same small box.
I glance at my reflection.
For a second, I almost feel like one of them moves slightly out of sync with me.
But when I look again, everything is normal.
Just me.
The doors open.
Outside, the morning air is cool and sharp. The city is already moving. Cars pass by in uneven waves, their engines blending into a constant mechanical murmur.
People walk along the sidewalks with the same determined pace.
Everyone seems to know where they're going.
I join them.
My walk to the train station takes about ten minutes. I've followed the same route for years now—down the block, past the convenience store, across the intersection, then straight toward the station entrance.
Simple.
Predictable.
Routine.
I pass the convenience store first.
The owner stands behind the counter inside, arranging something on the shelves. I don't know his name, but I see him almost every morning.
He always wears the same blue sweater.
Today is no different.
As I walk past the window, he briefly looks up.
Our eyes meet for less than a second.
He nods.
I nod back.
Then I keep walking.
Something about the interaction feels familiar.
Not just routine-familiar.
But already-happened familiar.
Like I've lived through that exact moment before.
The thought lingers as I reach the intersection.
The traffic light is red.
A small group of people waits on the sidewalk beside me. No one speaks. Most of them stare at their phones.
A woman stands to my left, tapping her foot impatiently. A man in a business suit stands on my right, adjusting his tie.
Everything looks normal.
Yet I feel the strange sensation again.
The one I felt this morning.
A quiet whisper in the back of my mind telling me something is… off.
The light turns green.
We begin crossing the street.
Halfway across, I suddenly feel certain I know what the man in the business suit will do next.
He will check his watch.
Three seconds later, he does.
I stop walking for a moment.
Not long enough for anyone to notice, but long enough for the thought to echo inside my head.
How did I know that?
Maybe it was obvious.
People check their watches all the time.
Still…
The certainty I felt before it happened bothers me.
Like remembering a scene from a movie before the character says their line.
I continue walking.
The train station appears ahead, its entrance surrounded by a slow current of people moving in and out.
Inside, the air feels warmer.
And louder.
Footsteps echo across the tiled floor. Announcements play over the speakers in a voice that sounds oddly distant.
I pass through the ticket gate and head toward the platform.
The train arrives two minutes later.
Right on time.
It always is.
I step inside and take my usual seat near the middle of the car.
Across from me sits an elderly man reading a newspaper.
To my right, a teenager listens to music through large headphones.
Everything feels exactly as it should.
But the strange feeling refuses to leave.
The train doors close.
We begin moving.
The city outside the windows slides past in blurred fragments of buildings and streets.
I watch them without really focusing.
My thoughts drift.
That moment at the intersection returns to my mind.
The watch.
The certainty.
It bothers me more than it should.
Maybe I noticed something subconsciously. A small movement. A habit people repeat without realizing it.
Yes.
That must be it.
The brain is good at recognizing patterns.
That explanation makes sense.
I try to relax.
The train slows at the next station.
The doors open.
Several passengers enter.
One of them sits down beside me.
I glance over briefly.
It's the man in the gray coat.
The same man I saw outside my apartment window this morning.
He stares straight ahead, expressionless.
For some reason, a cold wave passes through me.
I don't know why.
There's nothing unusual about seeing the same person twice in the same morning.
People commute.
They take the same routes.
Still…
I feel certain I've seen him more times than that.
Not just today.
Not just yesterday.
Many times.
Maybe even every day.
The thought unsettles me.
As if I've noticed him before but somehow forgotten.
I try to remember the first time I saw him.
My mind searches for the memory.
Nothing appears.
Just blank space.
The train continues moving.
I glance at him again.
This time, he turns his head slightly.
Our eyes meet.
For a brief moment, I feel like he recognizes me.
Not the casual recognition of strangers who share the same commute.
Something deeper.
Like he knows something about me.
Then he looks away.
And the moment disappears.
The train approaches the next station.
The doors open again.
The man in the gray coat stands up and steps off the train without looking back.
I watch him disappear into the crowd on the platform.
Something about the encounter leaves an uneasy silence inside my mind.
I sit there for the rest of the ride, staring out the window.
Trying to convince myself that nothing strange happened.
That everything this morning was normal.
Routine.
Predictable.
But one thought keeps returning.
A quiet question I can't quite silence.
What if this morning didn't start when I woke up?
What if it started earlier?
And I simply don't remember the beginning? 🧠