The Version of Me

People often say that every morning is a new beginning. I have never understood why. The morning doesn’t erase anything. It simply gives the previous day another twenty-four hours to follow you around.

At 6:30 a.m., my alarm began vibrating against the wooden surface of my bedside table, filling the quiet room with a persistent electronic buzz. I opened my eyes but didn’t move. For a few seconds, I remained still beneath the blanket, staring at the pale ceiling while rain whispered against the window. Ravenwood had been drowning beneath grey skies for most of the week. The kind of rain that never seemed angry enough to become a storm, yet never gentle enough to disappear either. It simply stayed, tapping against glass and rooftops as though it had nowhere else to be.

I reached for my phone without looking at the screen and silenced the alarm. 6:31.

I always woke up within a minute of my alarm.

My mother called it discipline. My sister called it terrifying. I had never considered it either. I simply disliked being late.

My room was dim despite the morning outside. A narrow strip of light had slipped beneath the curtains, falling across the carpet and stopping just short of my desk. Books were stacked along the wall in uneven towers, some belonging to my university courses and others completely unrelated to them. Psychology textbooks occupied most of the desk, mixed with notebooks, loose sheets of paper, a half-empty bottle of water, and a black pen I distinctly remembered leaving beside my bed the previous night.

I sat up and looked at the desk.

The pen was there.

I frowned.

I was almost certain I had left it somewhere else.

Almost.

I reached for my glasses and put them on before picking up the psychology textbook lying open beside my notebook. I had fallen asleep reading it the previous night, which was becoming a habit my mother would probably describe as unhealthy and I would describe as efficient. The page was filled with highlighted paragraphs and small handwritten notes in the margins. I scanned the section I’d been studying, following the lines without really needing to read them.

Then I stopped.

One sentence had been underlined.

I stared at it.

The handwriting was mine.

The pencil pressure, the slight slant of the letters, the way the final stroke of certain words became thinner—I recognized all of it.

Still, I didn’t remember underlining the sentence.

I read it again.

People rarely reveal themselves through what they say. They reveal themselves through what they consistently avoid.

I leaned back in my chair.

It was exactly the kind of sentence I would underline.

That was probably why it bothered me.

Not because I couldn’t remember doing it, but because I couldn’t tell whether forgetting something that small was normal.

I closed the book.

There were eighteen minutes until breakfast.

My mother would complain if I was late.

Mia would make fun of me for being late.

So I stood, pulled on a dark sweatshirt, ran a hand through my hair, and left my room.

I had barely taken three steps down the hallway when a voice came from the kitchen.

“Ethan!”

I stopped.

My eyes drifted toward the clock mounted above the stairs.

6:43.

“I’m coming,” I called back.

“You said that five minutes ago!”

I looked at the clock again.

Twenty-three seconds had passed.

“Mum,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen, “your definition of five minutes is becoming increasingly inaccurate.”

Mia appeared from around the corner before Mom could answer. At thirteen, she had perfected the ability to appear wherever she was least wanted and somehow make everyone glad she had arrived. Her dark hair was tied into a messy ponytail, and she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that belonged to me.

I stopped walking.

She stopped too.

We stared at each other.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

She looked down as though she’d only just noticed.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“Mia.”

She smiled.

“You weren’t using it.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“You have other ones.”

“That still isn’t the point.”

She shrugged and continued toward the kitchen.

I followed her. “You stole it.”

“I borrowed it.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“You’re thirteen.”

“And?”

“And you’re supposed to understand the concept of permission.”

She turned around while walking backward and gave me a look of exaggerated disappointment. “You’re eighteen. You’re supposed to understand the concept of sharing.”

“I share.”

“You share your lectures.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does to me.”

I tried not to smile.

I failed.

Mia noticed immediately.

“Aha.”

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“You imagined it.”

“I have witnesses.”

“There are no witnesses.”

“Mom!”

“Mia,” I warned.

She laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.

I followed her, shaking my head.

Some people had the strange ability to make a house feel like a home simply by being loud enough.

Mia was one of them.

Our mother stood beside the stove, pouring tea into three cups. She glanced at me over her shoulder, and her expression softened in the way it always did when she looked at me.

“There he is.”

“I was awake.”

“I didn’t ask whether you were awake.”

“I know.”

“You were supposed to be downstairs ten minutes ago.”

“I was studying.”

“At six-thirty in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Mia pulled out a chair and sat down. “He probably studied how to avoid breakfast.”

“I heard that,” I said.

“You were supposed to.”

Mom placed a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

“I will.”

She gave me the look.

I sighed.

“I am eating.”

“Actually eating?”

“Yes.”

“Not just moving food around the plate while pretending?”

“I don’t do that.”

Mia raised her hand.

“I have evidence.”

“You don’t have evidence.”

“I have eyes.”

“That isn’t evidence.”

Mom laughed quietly as she sat across from us.

For a few moments, everything was ordinary.

The rain outside.

The smell of toast.

The sound of Mia tapping her spoon against her cup despite being told not to.

Mom looking at me every few seconds as though she was checking that I was really there.

It was a familiar morning.

The kind of morning that disappears from your memory because nothing important happens.

At least, that’s what I thought then.

“Ethan?”

I looked up.

Mom was watching me.

“What?”

“You’re somewhere else.”

“I’m here.”

“You know what I mean.”

I glanced down at my plate. “Just thinking.”

“About university?”

“Mostly.”

She smiled faintly. “You think too much.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From me?”

“From everyone.”

Mia leaned across the table. “That’s because you make everything complicated.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“How?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“You look at people like you’re trying to solve them.”

I looked at her.

She smiled innocently.

“See?”

“What?”

“That.”

“What?”

“That look.”

Mom shook her head. “Leave your brother alone.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re annoying him.”

“I always annoy him.”

“That is true,” I admitted.

Mia grinned.

I looked toward the window.

Rain slid down the glass in crooked trails. Beyond it, the street was quiet, the pavement dark and reflective beneath the cloudy morning. A few cars passed, their headlights blurred by the wet air.

I had always liked watching people when they didn’t know they were being watched.

Not in a creepy way.

At least, I didn’t think it was creepy.

People were most honest when they thought nobody was paying attention. A tired mother dragging a child toward a car. A man checking his reflection in a shop window. Someone laughing at a message on their phone before quickly hiding the smile when another person approached.

Small things.

People thought their secrets were hidden in words.

They weren’t.

Secrets lived in habits.

In pauses.

In the things people did without realizing they were doing them.

I noticed those things.

I always had.

Mom followed my gaze toward the window.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching.”

I turned toward her.

She smiled.

“Nothing,” I said.

She didn’t believe me.

She never did.

After Dad left, Mom had become exceptionally good at recognizing when I was pretending everything was fine.

Dad had been gone for eight years.

Eight years was long enough for people to stop asking questions.

Long enough for relatives to stop saying, He’ll come back.

Long enough for Mom to stop checking her phone whenever it rang.

But it hadn’t been long enough for me to forget.

I remembered the night he left.

I remembered Mia being too young to understand why Mom was crying.

I remembered standing in the hallway, watching her pack his things into a suitcase that he never came back to collect.

I remembered thinking that adults were supposed to know what they were doing.

That night taught me they didn’t.

After that, I stopped expecting people to stay simply because they said they would.

Maybe that’s why I paid so much attention to people.

Maybe I was trying to find the moment they changed their minds.

“Ethan.”

I blinked.

Mom was still looking at me.

“You disappeared again.”

“Sorry.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere.”

Mia narrowed her eyes.

“He does that.”

“I know,” Mom said softly.

She reached across the table and adjusted the collar of my sweatshirt, an unnecessary gesture she had done since I was little.

“You don’t have to carry everything yourself, you know.”

I looked at her.

“I know.”

“You say that, but you don’t act like you know.”

I smiled slightly.

“I’m fine.”

She sighed.

“You always say that too.”

I stood before the conversation could become more serious.

“I have to go.”

Mom looked at the clock.

“You have twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

“You should eat more.”

“I’ll eat at university.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

Mia nodded. “He definitely won’t.”

I looked between them.

“You two are enjoying this.”

“Very much,” Mia said.

I grabbed my backpack from the chair.

As I reached the door, Mia called my name.

“Ethan.”

I turned.

She held something between two fingers.

My black pen.

I stared at it.

“You forgot this.”

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then I walked back and took it from her.

“Thanks.”

She smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

Mom watched us from the kitchen.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

I hesitated for half a second.

Then nodded.

“Promise.”

Mia leaned against the doorway.

“Try not to get expelled.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No promises?”

“No promises.”

She laughed.

I stepped outside.

The cold air touched my face immediately.

Behind me, the door closed.

And for a few seconds, I stood on the porch listening to the rain.

I didn’t know then that it would be the last completely ordinary morning I would have for a long time.

Blackwood University was older than most of the buildings surrounding it, and it looked like it knew it.

Grey stone walls climbed beneath a sky the color of wet ash. Tall windows reflected the morning clouds, while ivy curled around the sides of several buildings as though it had been there long enough to become part of the architecture. The central clock tower stood above everything else, its four faces visible from almost every part of campus.

The clock had been broken for years.

Nobody bothered fixing it.

Students had learned to use their phones instead.

I walked through the main gate with my backpack hanging from one shoulder, listening to the rain tap against the hood of my jacket. The courtyard was already crowded. Groups of students gathered beneath the covered walkways, laughing, arguing, complaining about assignments, comparing test scores, and talking about things that would probably seem unimportant in a few years.

I knew many of them by face.

Some knew my name.

Most knew something else.

Rumors travel quickly at university.

Especially when they have nowhere else to go.

I heard my name before I reached the psychology building.

“That’s Ethan.”

I didn’t turn.

Another voice followed.

“Yeah.”

“That’s him?”

“Apparently.”

A laugh.

I kept walking.

I had learned a long time ago that reacting only made people more interested.

People liked reactions.

They fed on them.

So I gave them nothing.

Inside the psychology building, the warmth hit me immediately. Students were shaking rain from their coats and gathering around the noticeboards. I walked past them toward the lecture hall.

Someone bumped into my shoulder.

“Watch it.”

I turned.

A boy I recognized from one of my classes looked at me for half a second before walking away.

No apology.

I didn’t need one.

I entered the lecture hall and took my usual seat near the middle.

Not too close.

Not too far.

A place where I could see everything without being seen too much.

Ryan was already there.

He had a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

He looked up.

“You’re late.”

I checked the clock.

“I’m four minutes early.”

“You’re emotionally late.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

Ryan smiled and pushed a second coffee toward me.

“I got this for you.”

I looked at it.

“Why?”

“Because you forget to eat.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I ate breakfast.”

Ryan stared at me.

I stared back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’re pretending you don’t care.”

“I don’t care.”

“Exactly.”

He laughed.

Ryan Carter was the only person at Blackwood who never seemed particularly interested in what other people thought about me.

He knew the rumors.

He knew the stories.

He had heard almost everything.

He just didn’t believe most of it.

Or, more accurately, he didn’t care whether it was true.

That was rare.

“Professor Hale’s already here,” he said.

I looked toward the front.

Professor Hale was arranging papers on the desk.

The lecture began a minute later.

The room gradually fell silent.

Professor Hale wrote a question on the board.

Why do people lie?

He turned around.

“Simple question.”

Nobody answered.

He waited.

“Why do people lie?”

A few students exchanged glances.

One raised his hand.

“To avoid consequences.”

“Good.”

Another answered.

“To protect themselves.”

“Also good.”

Professor Hale looked across the room.

“Anyone else?”

Silence.

His eyes moved slowly over the students before stopping on me.

“Mr. Cole?”

I straightened.

“Yes?”

“What do you think?”

I glanced at the question.

“People don’t always lie because they’re afraid of the truth.”

Professor Hale waited.

“Sometimes they lie because the truth would force them to become someone they don’t want to be.”

The room remained quiet.

Professor Hale’s expression changed slightly.

“Explain.”

I leaned back.

“People build versions of themselves that are easier to live with. A person might tell a lie not because they want to deceive someone, but because admitting the truth would contradict the version of themselves they’ve already accepted.”

Professor Hale nodded slowly.

“Interesting.”

He turned toward the board.

“Write that down.”

A few pens began moving.

Ryan leaned toward me.

“Show-off.”

“I answered a question.”

“You always answer the question.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Some of us are here for the attendance.”

I smiled.

Professor Hale continued the lecture.

For the next hour, I forgot about everything else.

That was the thing about psychology.

People were complicated, but the questions weren’t.

At least, not at first.

Patterns existed.

Causes led to effects.

Behavior left traces.

If you paid enough attention, you could usually understand why someone did something.

Usually.

When the lecture ended, students began packing their things.

I closed my notebook.

Ryan stood beside me.

“Library?”

“After lunch.”

“You’re studying again?”

“I have an exam next week.”

“Next week.”

“Yes.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head.

“Sometimes I think you were born forty years old.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

We left the lecture hall together.

As we entered the corridor, Ryan suddenly stopped.

I looked at him.

“What?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes moved past me.

Toward the far end of the hallway.

I followed his gaze.

Olivia Bennett was standing near the windows with two girls from our class.

I’d seen her countless times.

Everyone had.

Olivia was one of those people who seemed to belong wherever she stood. She was effortlessly social, the kind of person who could walk into a room full of strangers and leave ten minutes later knowing everyone’s name. People liked her because she made them feel noticed.

She laughed at something one of the girls said.

Then her eyes moved across the hallway.

They stopped on me.

For one brief moment, we looked at each other.

Her expression changed.

Not fear.

Not curiosity.

Dislike.

She looked away.

Ryan noticed.

“Still hates you.”

I shrugged.

“Apparently.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“You really don’t?”

“No.”

Ryan looked unconvinced.

“You’ve never done anything to her?”

“Not that I remember.”

He laughed.

I looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

There was something about the way he said it that bothered me.

“Ryan.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“The thing where you know something and don’t tell me.”

He smiled.

“I don’t know anything.”

I watched him for a moment.

He was lying.

A small lie.

Nothing important.

But I noticed.

I always noticed.

By the time classes ended, the rain had grown heavier.

Ryan left early because he had somewhere to be, so I headed toward the library alone.

The library at Blackwood was one of the few places on campus where nobody seemed particularly interested in who you were.

People came there to study.

That was it.

No rumors.

No staring.

No whispered conversations.

Just shelves, silence, and the occasional sound of a page turning.

I walked toward the psychology section.

My usual table was empty.

I placed my backpack on the chair and began looking through the notes from the morning lecture.

A few minutes later, I realized I needed one of the reference books Professor Hale had mentioned.

I walked toward the shelves.

The book was on the third row.

I reached for it.

My fingers touched the spine.

Then something slipped from between two books and fell to the floor.

A folded piece of paper.

I bent down and picked it up.

For a moment, I assumed it belonged to another student.

I almost put it back.

Then I noticed my name.

Written across the front.

Ethan.

I stared at it.

The handwriting looked familiar.

Too familiar.

I unfolded the paper.

There was only one sentence.

Three words.

You forgot again.

I read it once.

Then twice.

My first thought was Ryan.

It had to be Ryan.

Some stupid joke.

Some attempt to scare me.

I looked around the library.

Nobody was watching.

I turned the paper over.

Blank.

No signature.

No explanation.

I pulled out my phone and sent Ryan a message.

Did you leave something in the library?

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

What?

I typed:

A note.

His reply came.

What note?

I stared at the screen.

Then typed:

Forget it.

I put the phone away.

I looked at the paper again.

There was something strange about the handwriting.

The letters weren’t merely similar to mine.

They were mine.

The same narrow loops.

The same pressure.

The same slight tilt.

I turned the paper over again, hoping there would be something else.

There wasn’t.

I folded it and placed it inside my notebook.

Then I stopped.

A thought had entered my mind.

A ridiculous thought.

An impossible thought.

I looked at the psychology textbook I’d brought from home.

The same book I’d opened that morning.

The same book with the sentence I didn’t remember underlining.

Slowly, I pulled it from my bag.

I opened it.

The page was exactly where I’d left it.

The sentence was still underlined.

My eyes moved across the words.

People rarely reveal themselves through what they say. They reveal themselves through what they consistently avoid.

I looked at the note.

You forgot again.

My stomach tightened.

Again?

I hadn’t forgotten anything.

At least, I didn’t think I had.

I closed the book.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the city.

I gathered my things and stood.

As I walked out of the library, I tried to convince myself that it was nothing.

A prank.

A coincidence.

Someone copying my handwriting.

Anything.

Anything except the thought I refused to finish.

Because if the note was telling the truth—

then this wasn’t the first time.

And if it wasn’t the first time...

I had no idea what I had forgotten.