I haven't slept in six days. This isn't insomnia. I'm choosing not to sleep, and I need you to understand the distinction.
It started as a feeling. The way you know someone is standing behind you before you turn around. Except the feeling didn't go away when I turned around. It stayed, and it got stronger, and eventually I started noticing things.
Small things first. My roommate's handwriting was slightly different on the grocery list. My coworker laughed at the wrong moment in a story he'd told before. The cashier at the gas station looked at my hands when I paid instead of my face. That day, every single person I saw looked at my hands.
I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself that loudly, in my head, because I was worried about what I'd say if I said it out loud.
Then my best friend called me by the wrong nickname. A nickname only my family uses. He's never heard it.
I made excuses. I started keeping a list. The list got long.
I stopped going outside. I started watching my apartment from the inside, timing how long the same car sat parked on my street. I stopped responding to messages. I watched the messages get more urgent, then more casual, like whoever was sending them had recalibrated.
My neighbor knocked on my door and asked if I was okay. I looked through the peephole for a long time before I answered. I told her I had the flu. She said she hoped I felt better. She said it perfectly normally. Too normally. Like she'd practiced.
On day four without sleep I understood. It's not everyone. It's not some of them. It's just the ones that have made contact with me. Each time one of them makes a mistake — each time I catch one of them — they update. They get better. They are learning me.
The ones who haven't made contact with me yet are still real. I believe this. I have to believe this.
I'm writing this because I need someone else to know. I need you to read it carefully. I need you to look at the people around you and ask: have they made a mistake recently? Have they said something slightly wrong, laughed at the wrong time, looked at your hands?
If they haven't, you're okay. You still have time.
If they have, I need you to understand something important:
Don't let them know you noticed.
They learn. They adapt. The only advantage you have is that they don't know what you know.
Go somewhere with strangers. Lots of them. People they haven't had time to replace yet. You'll know them by the way they make mistakes. Laugh too loud. Stumble on words. Real people are imperfect in ways that aren't consistent.
I'm running out of places to go.
I haven't slept in six days. And the city outside my window is very, very quiet.