The mess I made earlier was still scattered across the floor, a small avalanche of things that should've meant something to me. I knelt down slowly, letting my hand hover over the first item as if touching it might spark something, or anything back into place.
I pick up the crumpled papers first. They're everywhere, wrinkled sheets tossed around like someone emptied their pockets in a hurry. I don't bother unfolding them. I don't even try to look at what's inside. They feel like the kind of meaningless junk people keep without remembering why.
I scoop the whole handful up and drop them back into the drawer.
Next are the sports medals. A few have slid toward me, ribbons tangled like veins, metal catching the faint light. I pick one up, tilt it slightly. The cool weight settles into my palm as if it recognizes me.
But I don't recognize it back.
Gold. Silver. My name carved into the back with a date that means nothing to me. They look like they belonged to someone with purpose, someone who trained, competed, cared. Someone who had momentum.
Someone I'm not sure I ever was.
I lay them inside the drawer again. They clink together softly, almost relieved to return to their place.
Then there are the letters.
A small, carefully folded stack. Each one written in different handwriting. I lift a few, feeling the uneven edges, the soft wear of paper handled too often. I don't have to open them to understand.
Love letters.
They carry that quiet hesitance in their folds, the kind written by girls who once knew someone confident, someone gentle, someone who belonged somewhere.
I can't remember ever being that person.
I'm not even sure I remember being anyone at all.
I slide the letters back into the drawer. My hands move automatically, with a smoothness that feels practiced. That's when the déjà vu hits, like a memory brushing past without stopping. A routine I'm reenacting from a version of me I no longer recognize.
I close the drawer.
The room settles around me again, like it's waiting for me to realize something obvious. But my mind remains empty, smooth and hollow where answers should be.
Nothing here feels new. Yet none of it feels like it belongs to me either.
The more I try to fit myself into the life scattered around this room, the more it feels like pressing into a shape I no longer match.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on my knees. The room feels too still, as if it's holding its breath with me. I try to decide what to do next, but my mind gives me nothing.
My gaze drifts across the room. The dull curtains. The half-open closet. The blank stretch of wall where sunlight must have fallen once, if I ever cared to notice.
Then something catches my eye.
In the corner, beside the desk, sits a trash can. Empty, except for one crumpled piece of paper. A lone scrap, resting at the bottom like it wasn't just thrown away, but abandoned.
I stare at it for a long moment. There's no reason for it to pull at me the way it does.
And yet…
Something in me insists I'm supposed to go to it. Not because I remember it, but because the absence of memory makes the pull feel sharper, more precise.
I rise slowly.
The floor creaks under my steps. I reach the trash can and look down at the paper again, waiting for it to explain itself before I even touch it.
It doesn't.
So I bend down and pick it up.
The paper is stiff, the creases deep, like it's been crushed and smoothed out more than once. My fingers hesitate before unfolding it, but the hesitation doesn't stop me. It feels like a habit, one I don't fully understand.
…
"Body Possession Contract."
…?
The contract was for someone named Tobin Price. His name is printed neatly, followed by an address. I don't know him. At least, not in any way I can reach.
I scan further down.
That's when I see it, my handwriting. My name, written in the same familiar curve I've used all my life, even if I can't remember what that life looked like. The signature lands exactly where it should. Familiar in a way my reflection wasn't.
"…I signed this?"
The words slip out before I can stop them.
I look at my name again. The same strokes, the same tilt, the same small pressure mark on the last letter. My hand must have done this. My memory didn't, but my hand did.
It's undeniably mine.
And that makes something twist in my stomach.
My gaze drifts back to the name at the top.
Tobin Price.
If I really signed something like this… whatever this is, then Tobin Price must know something. Something about who I was. Something about why I would ever agree to something like this.
Something about why my past feels like a blank wall.
It feels less like a guess and more like the first truth I've touched since waking up.
The address sits there on the page, waiting.
And for the first time since I opened my eyes, the emptiness inside me begins to pull in a direction.