3:00 A.M.

The pen keeps leaving ink on the side of my hand.

They say insomnia kills slowly. Maybe that's what this is. Not one death, but thousands of tiny rehearsals.

The apartment is quiet enough to hear the refrigerator breathe.

2:47 a.m.

The microwave clock glows green across the room, its numbers sharp enough to hurt my eyes. I haven't slept in three days. Maybe four. Time stopped keeping track before I did.

People say sleep deprivation makes you see things.

I think they're wrong.

It makes you doubt the things you already saw.

I lift my eyes from the page and stare at the hallway because I can't remember if the door was open a second ago or closed. The darkness beyond it seems deeper than the rest of the apartment like the hall belongs to another building entirely.

I don't get up to check.

Maybe some questions are safer unanswered.

2:53 a.m.

A notebook sits on the coffee table beside an empty mug. Every morning I find something new written inside it.

DON'T TRUST THE WINDOWS.

The handwriting is mine.

But I don't remember writing it.

I flip to yesterday's page.

YOU DIED AT 3:00.

I almost laugh.

Almost.

Because whoever wrote it knew I'd check the time every few minutes afterward. They knew I'd sit here counting the seconds until the hour arrived, listening to the pipes groan inside the walls and wondering if the sound was water or something trying to remember my name.

2:58 a.m.

Outside, somewhere in the city, a dog begins barking.

Then another.

Then all of them.

3:00 a.m.

.....

I look down.

My handwriting.

He's been writing again.

At the top of the page:

They say insomnia kills slowly....