It was his handwriting. Same pressure. Same uneven spacing between words.
But he didn't write it.
The page was at the back of his math notebook—tucked behind a worksheet, like it had always been there. Like it had waited for the right moment.
He read it once.
It wasn't instructions. Not a prediction. Just a memory.
His memory.
> He walks past Mira in the hallway, doesn't say a word. He thinks about calling out, doesn't. She doesn't turn. She's humming something that doesn't exist. He forgets it by the next corner.
He blinked.
That had happened.
Two days ago. Exactly. Down to the song he couldn't remember.
He flipped the page. Blank.
Back again. Still his handwriting. Still... not his.
He circled it.
Then added a note below:
**If this is mine, who's writing me remembering it?**
At lunch, Mira didn't speak.
She just held up her hand, fingers slightly stained with graphite.
He showed her his own. Same marks. Same smudge on the knuckle.
They didn't say anything after that.