It took a few seconds to realize I was utterly and completely lost.
22/06/2025
In progress
The back wall of the library opened at midnight, revealing another life I might have lived.
They said I could step through, but only once.
I bought a stranger’s ring at the market, and now I’m remembering things I’ve never lived. Somewhere inside the memory, something is screaming to get out.
Your story made me laugh so hard I nearly cried, so here’s mine, I’ve never told anyone this.
A letter exchange between two strangers spirals into an unexpectedly deep confession.
I didn’t mean to let the device raise my kid, I just needed a break.
Now it’s making decisions I never agreed to, and my child listens to it more than to me.
For the next 24 hours, I can only tell the truth.
I’ve already lost two friends, a job offer, and maybe my marriage, and it’s only noon.
I woke up alone in first class, the cabin door locked, no crew, no other passengers—and the plane is still in the air.
The last thing I remember is boarding… but that doesn’t explain the blood on my shirt.
Every seventh page of the diary ends in a disappearance.
I’m on page six, and I don’t know how to stop reading.
Each petal whispered a story as I picked it.
None of them were mine, until one started telling me my future.
I missed the last train, and now the station’s gone.
What replaced it wasn’t meant for anyone from here.
I found a voicemail from myself, dated three days in the future.
It only said: “Don’t go to the lake.” But by then, I already had.
Everyone else stopped aging five years ago.
I’m the only one still getting older, and no one will tell me why.
There’s a new photo on my wall every morning.
It shows me doing something I have no memory of, until the day one shows me holding a knife.
I was hired to haunt a house.
The family pays well, but now something else has started haunting me.
The new tenant only comes out of Room 303 when it rains.
They always leave puddles behind, but never track water in.
The therapist asked me to draw the monster from my dreams.
Now it’s sitting in the waiting room with a clipboard.
I received a invitation to my own funeral.
The RSVP list was already full. With names I recognized. From the cemetery.
Every time I press the elevator button, it takes me to a floor that isn’t listed.
And every time, it shows me something I shouldn’t know.
A man at the café keeps ordering the exact drink I’m about to ask for.
Today, he beat me to it again, right down to the words I hadn’t yet spoken.
The dog won’t stop barking at the mirror.
Last night, I watched the reflection bark back, without the real dog moving at all.
I can pause time, but only for thirty seconds at a time.
It’s amazing how much damage you can do in thirty seconds, and how little you can fix.
My daughter brings me feathers every day.
Yesterday, she brought one that was still warm.
I’ve been pretending to be someone else for so long, the real me showed up to confront me.
Now we both want the same life.
Every lie I tell becomes true, but only for me.
And now everyone thinks I’m the crazy one.
I dug up a time capsule I buried as a child, only to find it was already empty.
Inside was a note in my handwriting: “You’ll understand one day.”
Calvin Ho 