**Week 1 - Monday**

**Dear Diary,**

Nothing much to report. Don’t know why I’m bothering with a diary. Daft idea if you ask me. Anyway… work was dull. I had lunch with Mira – she talked about her new project, some data thing. She said I looked tired. I didn’t sleep well again.

It’s weird right? I keep forgetting small things: keys, names, what I walked into the room for. Could just be stress. I’ve always been a little forgetful.

Just getting older maybe? Probably got too much going on to pay attention. Right?

**Week 2 - Thursday**

**Dear Diary,**

I found an old notebook with sketches in it today. Pages and pages of drawings… figures, faces, landscapes… but I don’t remember doing them. I’m pretty sure it was today anyway.

I mean, the style looks like mine. I even signed them. But I have no memory of drawing these.

Is it possible to forget whole chunks of yourself and not even notice until later?

I’ve started to carry a small recorder. I say things into it, to remember. I’m not sure if that’s normal. It’ll be bloody post-it notes all over the place next.

**Week 3 - Sunday**

**Diary,**

There was a man at the café today who waved and smiled at me. He called me “Lex.”

That’s not my name.

At least, I don’t think it is.

He seemed so sure.

I didn’t correct him. I just smiled back. I keep replaying the moment. The way he looked at me. Like he _knew_ me.

There’s a photograph on my fridge of me and a woman with red hair. We look close. I don’t remember her name. Or the trip.

I must’ve put it there, though. Who else would it be?

**Week 4 - Tuesday**

**I…**

Do you know a weird thing? There’s something’s wrong with my reflection.

It blinks at the wrong time.

My face is off-centre.

When I stare too long, I can’t recognise it. It rearranges itself while I watch. Like wet paint sliding off a wall.

I found clothes in the closet I don’t remember buying.

Three toothbrushes in the bathroom.

There’s only me here.

There’s only supposed to be me here.

I’ve started keeping notes on myself. My preferences. My routines. I read them aloud every morning.

I’d better not forget how to bloody well read.

**Week 5 - Friday**

**Dear… someone,**

I stopped using my name. Well, when I say stopped using my name I mean the any name…. I’m not sure which is actually mine. They all feel foreign in my mouth. Sharp-edged and slippery.

Names carry weight, and mine no longer fits.

I’ve begun answering to others. The man from the café called me Lex again today. He bought me coffee.

He says we used to work together. He gave me a USB drive full of photos, emails. I haven’t looked yet.

What if he’s telling the truth?

I dreamed I had different hands last night. Larger, covered in old scars. I woke up and checked. Still mine. I think.

This skin doesn’t feel like a home anymore. What’s going on?

**Week 6 - Wednesday**

Rain. The window hums. The walls breathe slow.

I found writing in the margins of this book and I don’t remember doing that.

“Who is dreaming this?” one note said. “Me or the other one?”

I don’t know where I go when I sleep now. I wake up tired. Heavy with the memory of a life I haven’t lived.

The face in the mirror today looked kind. Not mine. But kind.

I nodded at them.

Maybe that’s who I am now.

Maybe the self is just the story we tell loudest. And mine is quieting.