It's been three days since I first saw him — the man with the silver hair and ocean-blue eyes.
I keep telling myself it was a trick of light, or maybe my imagination playing games again. I've been through therapy, I know how trauma can make the mind see what isn't there. But still… it felt too real to dismiss.
Andre says I've been spacing out more than usual.
He's been trying harder to make me laugh lately — dumb jokes, clumsy flirting, everything that once made me roll my eyes affectionately.
"Doctor," he said today, "if your diagnosis is that I'm addicted to you, is there a cure?"
I should have laughed. I wanted to. But the truth is, my mind was somewhere else entirely — stuck on those eyes that had watched me from the courtyard days ago.
Ocean blue. Cold, but sad. Familiar in a way that shouldn't be possible.
---
Today after class, I saw something strange.
There was a car parked across from the medical building — sleek, black, tinted windows. But what caught my attention wasn't the car. It was the reflection on the glass.
Silver hair again. Just for a second. Standing by the fountain.
And when I turned around, nothing. Just wind and scattered leaves.
Maybe I'm losing it.
But then, tonight, when I checked my mail, there was an envelope — no sender name, no address, just my name.
Inside, a single folded note.
> "Vivian Ray. It's been a long time."
No explanation. No signature. Just that.
The handwriting was neat, controlled… familiar somehow.
---
I didn't tell Andre. I don't know why. Maybe because I didn't want him to worry, or maybe because a small, hidden part of me does want to remember. To know what I've forgotten.
Sometimes, when I stare into the mirror, I almost see a different version of myself — one that knows things I don't.
I told Lily about it, though. She laughed it off at first, then saw my face and stopped.
"Maybe it's someone from therapy?" she said quietly. "You know… one of those doctors?"
Her words hit me harder than they should have. Because for a second, I remembered a name. Not a face, not a memory — just a name.
Jay.
It echoed faintly in my mind, like a whisper under layers of fog.
Jay… Justin?
But I don't know where I've heard it before.
---
It's 2:11 a.m. now.
The streetlight outside flickers every few minutes, and I swear, when it does, I see a shadow move past my window.
No footsteps. No sound. Just that lingering presence — quiet, patient, waiting.
Who are you, silver-haired stranger?
And why do your eyes feel like they've known me before?