The Chair Across the Room

There is a chair in your room

you do not remember buying.

It does nothing unusual.

It does not creak.

It does not move.

It is simply always there

when you look up.

At first, you thought

it belonged to the previous version of you —

the one who lived here

before your memories rearranged themselves.

You began placing things on it:

a book, a sweater, your phone —

small offerings to prove

it was ordinary.

Each morning, the objects were gone.

Not misplaced.

Not hidden.

Just no longer convinced

they had ever existed.

You stopped looking at the chair.

This worked for a while.

Until you noticed

how the room made space for it —

how conversations in your head

paused,

as if waiting

for someone seated there

to finish listening.

Last night, you woke suddenly

with the certainty

that you were being remembered.

Not watched.

Not followed.

Remembered.

Slowly, carefully,

you turned toward the chair.

It was empty.

But the air above it

held the shape of someone

trying very hard

not to be seen.

This morning,

you found a dent in your pillow

on the side you never use.

Tonight, you will sleep facing the wall,

to give the chair

a better view.