Chapter 2 The Impossible Vacation

I didn't sleep that night.

I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Polaroid of me in bed, my hair tangled in the same position it had been only hours before I found it. Every time I turned, I imagined the faint click of a camera shutter echoing from the dark corners of my apartment.

By dawn, my nerves buzzed like static. My coffee tasted like burnt paper, but I kept sipping just to have something to do with my hands.

The stack of Polaroids sat on the kitchen table, daring me to look again. I told myself not to, that picking them up would only dig the hook deeper. But by the second cup of coffee, my curiosity won.

I spread them out in a line, careful not to look too long at the last one - the one of me sleeping. Instead, I focused on the beach photo.

The Impossible Vacation.

That's what I called it in my head, because I knew with absolute certainty it had never happened. Yet the image was so vivid, so precise, I could almost feel the salt air on my skin.

I brought it closer. Something in the background caught my eye.

At first it was just a smear of light. But as I squinted, the shape sharpened. A hotel sign, half-hidden behind a dune, painted in peeling teal letters. Seaview Inn.

The name rang no bells.

I set the Polaroid down and grabbed my laptop. A quick search later, I found it. Seaview Inn - Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

My pulse skipped. Myrtle Beach? I had never been there. Not as a kid, not in college, not ever. And yet, there I was in the photo, smiling like I belonged.

I clicked through images on the hotel's outdated website. And there it was: the same weathered boardwalk, the same stretch of sand, even the same teal-painted sign with a crack running through the middle of the V.

The same as the Polaroid.

I leaned back in my chair, cold creeping into my fingertips. There was no way. No explanation that made sense. Unless...

Unless I'd forgotten.

That thought should have comforted me, but instead it scraped at my nerves. I've misplaced keys, forgotten birthdays, blanked on conversations, sure - but an entire trip? A whole week carved out of memory, lost? Impossible.

And yet the Polaroid existed. Proof in glossy instant film.

I searched my old emails, bank statements, texts - any record of a hotel booking or plane ticket. Nothing. Not a trace.

But when I checked my photo albums on my phone, I found something worse.

A gap.

August 2018. An entire week with no photos, no texts, no notes. Just silence. Like a page ripped from a diary.

My chest tightened.

That was the date written on the back of the beach Polaroid.

I dropped my phone onto the counter like it had burned me.

The rational part of my brain whispered explanations: maybe I'd deleted the photos, maybe I was stressed and forgot. Maybe it wasn't even me in the Polaroid, just someone who looked enough like me to trick my tired eyes.

But I knew. I knew that was me. The tilt of my smile, the scar on my wrist from when I fell off a bike at twelve, the faint freckle by my collarbone. Details too specific for coincidence.

I was there. I just couldn't remember.

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air too thick. I shoved the Polaroids back into the box, slammed the lid, and pushed it into the corner. Out of sight, out of mind. That's what normal people would do.

And for a few hours, I managed to pretend.

I showered, dressed, went to work. Typed reports, answered emails. Smiled at coworkers. On the surface, I was fine. Normal. But the image of that beach clung to me, ghostlike, tugging at my brain every time I blinked.

By lunch, I couldn't take it. I opened my phone again, pulled up the Seaview Inn website, and stared at the photos until the room blurred.

That's when I noticed something else.

On the hotel's homepage, a group photo of guests on the boardwalk. Families, couples, kids. And in the far corner, barely visible - a man in sunglasses.

My ex.

Standing exactly where he stood in the Polaroid.

My stomach dropped.

The timestamp said August 2018.

I slammed the laptop shut, heart racing.

He was there too. He knew. He had to.

The rest of the workday passed in a fog. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't breathe without feeling that photo's weight pressing down on me. By the time I got home, I'd made a decision.

I needed answers.

I dialed his number.

It rang too many times before he picked up. His voice was groggy, annoyed. "What?"

I didn't bother with pleasantries. "The beach. Myrtle Beach. August 2018. You took me there."

Silence.

Then a laugh, sharp and forced. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The Polaroids. The Seaview Inn. I found the photos. Don't play dumb."

More silence. I pictured him pacing, running a hand through his hair like he always did when he lied.

Finally: "You're losing it."

"No," I snapped. "I saw you. On the hotel website. You were there. We were there."

His voice changed then - lower, tighter, like he was trying to smother panic. "Don't call me again."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, fury and fear twisting together in my gut. He knew something. He wasn't just brushing me off. He was scared.

Which meant I was right.

I paced the apartment until the shadows stretched long across the floor. My thoughts spun in tighter and tighter circles. If he knew, then he was hiding something. If he was hiding something, I had to find it.

But I never got the chance.

Because that night, as I pulled my curtains shut, I saw it.

Another Polaroid.

Taped to the glass from the outside.

Hands trembling, I peeled it free.

The photo showed me, standing in this exact spot, pulling the curtains shut.

The date on the back: Tomorrow.