One evening, as she cooked dinner, she realized she hadn’t heard a single word from him all day. He hadn’t gone to work. He hadn’t eaten breakfast. The apartment was silent except for the soft tick of the wall clock. “Ken?” she called. No reply. She turned off the stove and walked down the hallway. His shoes were by the door, his jacket on the chair. The bathroom door was half open. She pushed it gently.
Ken stood at the sink, staring into the mirror. The light flickered above him. “Ken,” she said softly. “What are you doing?” He didn’t look at her. His reflection did — eyes meeting hers through the mirror’s glass. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “how many versions of us exist.” “What?” “Every time we start over,” he murmured, “we become someone else. This one’s quieter. The last one was angry. The first one was hopeful.” “Ken, stop.”
He turned to her, expression unreadable. “Which one do you love, Lilian?” She froze. “All of them,” she said finally, though her voice trembled. He nodded, as though that answer satisfied him. Then he brushed past her, leaving the light buzzing behind him.
That night, the silence became alive. It started with a soft hum — like the sound of air moving through walls. Then came a whisper, too faint to understand. Lilian sat up in bed, her pulse quickening. “Ken?” she whispered. He was beside her, asleep—or pretending to be. She leaned closer, listening.
The whisper grew clearer, but the words were wrong, layered, as if spoken by two voices at once. He never left. He never left. Her breath caught.
She turned on the lamp. The room was empty except for them. The sound stopped immediately, like it had been waiting for the light to disappear.
She shook Ken’s shoulder. “Wake up.” He groaned, opening one eye. “What?” “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “The whispering.” He sighed. “You’re dreaming again.” “I’m not.” “Then stop listening,” he muttered, rolling away. She sat there a long time, staring at the back of his head. The whisper had vanished, but she could still feel it under her skin, humming like electricity.
The next morning, Lilian opened the drawer where she kept her journal — and froze. The notebook was open. A new entry had been written in her handwriting, though she hadn’t written it: Day 8 — He’s not Ken anymore. Her throat tightened. She read the line over and over until the words blurred. Then she slammed the drawer shut.
When she turned around, Ken was standing in the doorway, watching her. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Nothing.” He nodded slowly, as though pretending to believe her. Then he smiled. “You look tired. Maybe you should rest.” She nodded, pretending to agree. But that night, she didn’t sleep.
She sat in the living room with all the lights on, the journal clutched to her chest. Around midnight, she heard him moving in the kitchen. The sound of drawers opening. Something metallic clinking. “Ken?” she called. No answer.
She walked to the doorway, her heart pounding. Ken was standing at the counter, holding a knife. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming like a threat. “Why are you holding that?” she asked. He looked at her with calm eyes. “I thought I heard something.” “What?” “A noise. Like someone breathing.” “There’s no one here but us.” He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Exactly.”
He set the knife down slowly and walked past her into the hallway. She stood frozen, listening to his footsteps fade. When she returned to the kitchen, the knife was gone.
Ken stood at the sink, staring into the mirror. The light flickered above him. “Ken,” she said softly. “What are you doing?” He didn’t look at her. His reflection did — eyes meeting hers through the mirror’s glass. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “how many versions of us exist.” “What?” “Every time we start over,” he murmured, “we become someone else. This one’s quieter. The last one was angry. The first one was hopeful.” “Ken, stop.”
He turned to her, expression unreadable. “Which one do you love, Lilian?” She froze. “All of them,” she said finally, though her voice trembled. He nodded, as though that answer satisfied him. Then he brushed past her, leaving the light buzzing behind him.
That night, the silence became alive. It started with a soft hum — like the sound of air moving through walls. Then came a whisper, too faint to understand. Lilian sat up in bed, her pulse quickening. “Ken?” she whispered. He was beside her, asleep—or pretending to be. She leaned closer, listening.
The whisper grew clearer, but the words were wrong, layered, as if spoken by two voices at once. He never left. He never left. Her breath caught.
She turned on the lamp. The room was empty except for them. The sound stopped immediately, like it had been waiting for the light to disappear.
She shook Ken’s shoulder. “Wake up.” He groaned, opening one eye. “What?” “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “The whispering.” He sighed. “You’re dreaming again.” “I’m not.” “Then stop listening,” he muttered, rolling away. She sat there a long time, staring at the back of his head. The whisper had vanished, but she could still feel it under her skin, humming like electricity.
The next morning, Lilian opened the drawer where she kept her journal — and froze. The notebook was open. A new entry had been written in her handwriting, though she hadn’t written it: Day 8 — He’s not Ken anymore. Her throat tightened. She read the line over and over until the words blurred. Then she slammed the drawer shut.
When she turned around, Ken was standing in the doorway, watching her. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Nothing.” He nodded slowly, as though pretending to believe her. Then he smiled. “You look tired. Maybe you should rest.” She nodded, pretending to agree. But that night, she didn’t sleep.
She sat in the living room with all the lights on, the journal clutched to her chest. Around midnight, she heard him moving in the kitchen. The sound of drawers opening. Something metallic clinking. “Ken?” she called. No answer.
She walked to the doorway, her heart pounding. Ken was standing at the counter, holding a knife. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming like a threat. “Why are you holding that?” she asked. He looked at her with calm eyes. “I thought I heard something.” “What?” “A noise. Like someone breathing.” “There’s no one here but us.” He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Exactly.”
He set the knife down slowly and walked past her into the hallway. She stood frozen, listening to his footsteps fade. When she returned to the kitchen, the knife was gone.
