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The Rewrite
Chapter 1 The Box
The box had been sitting in the corner of my living room for weeks. For a long time, I pretended it was not there. It was not hidden in a closet or pushed under the bed. It sat right in the open, next to the radiator. It was a cardboard box sealed with tape. My ex-boyfriend's name was written on the side in thick, black marker. The box looked at me like a stray dog that no one wanted to take home. Still, I could not bring myself to throw it away.
Every morning, I stepped over the box on my way to work. Every night, I walked past it to get to the couch while holding my dinner and the TV remote. Sometimes, I caught myself staring at it during commercials. I looked at it the way someone looks at a spider in the corner of a room. I was too afraid to hit it, but too uncomfortable to let it stay.
I told myself I would throw it out tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would carry it down three flights of stairs. Tomorrow, I would put it on the curb with the trash. Tomorrow, I would erase the last memory of him. But tomorrow always turned into another today.
Maybe I kept the box because throwing it away meant admitting the relationship was really over. It wasn't just about the mean fights or the way he betrayed me. It was about the long, messy time we spent together. Yes, he cheated on me. He lied to me. He turned out to be a very cruel person. I should have seen it coming. But throwing away the box felt like deleting a whole chapter of my life. I didn't want to feel like none of it mattered.
Tonight, I finally had enough. I had not slept well in weeks and I had drank a bit too much wine. I decided to open the box.
It was almost midnight when I dragged the cardboard cube into the middle of the living room floor. I pulled the tape off. It made a long, hissing sound, as if the box wanted to stay closed. I expected to find normal things from a breakup. I thought there would be old hoodies, dirty socks, or maybe a phone charger he forgot. Just junk.
That is what I found at first.
I pulled out a wrinkled sweatshirt. It still smelled a little bit like his cologne. I found a cracked iPhone charger. I found a baseball hat for a team he didn't even like. I pulled these things out one by one. I felt very cold and distant, like a doctor removing something bad from a body. My chest felt tight, but I did not stop.
At the very bottom of the box, I found something different. It was a stack of Polaroid photos. They were tied together with a piece of thin string.
I stopped moving. We were never the kind of couple that took many photos. He never wanted to take pictures with me. He always said that being romantic and "sappy" was annoying. The only pictures I remembered were blurry ones on my phone. We usually had fake smiles in those. But here was a neat bundle of instant photos, waiting for me to look at them.
My fingers were shaking as I untied the string. The first photo almost made me smile. It showed him and me together on a beach. We were both grinning at the camera. My hair was messy from the wind and my eyes were squinting because the sun was so bright. His arm was around my shoulders. He looked like he owned me.
But then I realized something. We had never gone to the beach together. Not one single time.
I stared at the photo. I tried to remember if we had ever taken a trip like that. I thought maybe the photo was taken before we met, but I was in the picture. The girl in the photo was definitely me. I was laughing. My skin looked tan from the sun. My hair was a little longer than it is now. I was wearing a blue bikini. It was the exact shade of blue I liked, but I had never owned a swimsuit like that in my life.
I looked at the second photo. It showed us standing in front of a bright Christmas tree. The ornaments were shining. He was wearing a silly red sweater. I was wearing a matching green sweater with reindeer on it. we were laughing and holding mugs of hot cocoa. I could see marshmallows floating on top.
We never spent Christmas together.
During our first year, he went home to see his family. The second year, he said he had too much work to do. By the third year, our relationship was falling apart. I had never worn that green sweater. I had never decorated that tree. It never happened.
The next few photos were even stranger. They showed moments that felt familiar but also totally wrong. There was a photo of a dinner at a fancy restaurant with candles. I did not recognize the place. There was a photo of a picnic in a park, but it wasn't a park in our city. There were photos of vacations, anniversaries, and birthdays that never took place.
I started flipping through the photos faster and faster. My stomach felt sick. On the back of every photo, there was a date. It was written in his messy handwriting. 2016. 2017. 2018.
These dates were years before we even met.
I should have stopped looking. I should have put everything back in the box and taped it shut forever. But I couldn't stop myself.
The last photo fell out of the stack.
It was a picture of me. I stopped breathing for a second. In this photo, I wasn't smiling or posing for a camera. I was asleep. My face was relaxed and my mouth was slightly open. My hair was spread out across the pillow. I could see the lamp next to my bed glowing softly. I recognized my own sheets and my own bedroom.
I turned the photo over. The date on the back said: Yesterday.
The photo slipped out of my hands and landed on the carpet.
I sat there, frozen. A cold, tingling feeling went up my neck and across my chest. My apartment felt way too quiet. I looked toward the windows. I could see the reflection of my living room in the dark glass.
That was when I heard it. A small, sharp click. It sounded exactly like the shutter of a camera.
I turned around quickly. My heart was pounding against my ribs. The sound had come from outside, on the fire escape. I moved closer to the window and looked out into the dark. My breath made a fog on the glass.
In the reflection of the window, I saw her. For just one second, I saw a woman standing outside. She was watching me.
The woman looked exactly like me.
Chapter 2 The Impossible Vacation
I did not sleep that night. I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that photo of myself in bed. I looked exactly as I had just a few hours before. Every time I moved, I thought I heard the small click of a camera from the dark corners of the room.
When the sun came up, I felt very nervous. My coffee tasted bad, but I kept drinking it because I needed to do something with my hands. The stack of photos sat on the kitchen table. They seemed to be daring me to look at them again. I told myself to stay away. I knew that looking at them would only make things worse. But after my second cup of coffee, I had to look.
I spread the photos out in a line. I was careful not to look at the last one-the one of me sleeping. Instead, I looked at the beach photo. I called it "The Impossible Vacation." I was 100% sure it never happened. But the picture was so clear. It was so detailed that I could almost feel the salty air and the wind on my skin.
I brought the photo closer to my eyes. I saw something in the background. At first, it was just a blurry light. But as I looked harder, the shape became clear. It was a hotel sign behind a sand dune. It had teal letters that were peeling off. It said: Seaview Inn.
I did not know that name. I put the photo down and opened my laptop. I searched for the name. I found it quickly. The Seaview Inn was in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
My heart skipped a beat. Myrtle Beach? I had never been there. I didn't go there as a kid, or in college, or ever. But in the photo, I was smiling like I belonged there.
I looked at the photos on the hotel's website. It was an old website, but the pictures were clear. There it was: the same boardwalk, the same sand, and the same teal sign with a crack in the letter V. It was exactly like the photo in my hand.
I leaned back in my chair. My fingers felt cold. There was no logical explanation. It didn't make sense. Unless... maybe I had forgotten?
That thought made me feel even more scared. I have lost my keys before. I have forgotten birthdays. But an entire trip? How could I forget a whole week of my life? It seemed impossible. But the photo was right there. It was real proof.
I checked everything. I looked at my old emails. I looked at my bank records. I looked at my old text messages. I was looking for a hotel bill or a plane ticket. I found nothing. There was no record of the trip at all.
Then, I checked the photo album on my phone. I found something that made me feel sick. There was a gap. In August 2018, there was an entire week with no photos. There were no texts and no notes. It was just silent. It was like a page had been ripped out of a book.
My chest felt very tight. That was the same date written on the back of the beach photo. I dropped my phone on the counter. It felt like the phone had burned me.
The smart part of my brain tried to find an answer. Maybe I deleted the photos? Maybe I was very stressed and just forgot? Maybe the girl in the photo wasn't me, but just someone who looked like me?
But I knew the truth. That was me. I recognized the way I smiled. I saw the small scar on my wrist from a bike accident when I was twelve. I saw the tiny freckle near my neck. These details were too perfect to be a mistake. I was there. I just could not remember being there.
Suddenly, the room felt very small. The air felt heavy. I shoved the photos back into the box and closed the lid. I pushed the box back into the corner. I wanted to keep it out of my sight. I tried to act like a normal person.
For a few hours, I pretended everything was okay. I took a shower and got dressed. I went to work. I wrote reports and answered emails. I smiled at the people I worked with. On the outside, I looked fine. But the image of that beach stayed in my mind. Every time I blinked, I saw it.
By lunch, I couldn't handle it anymore. I opened my phone and went back to the hotel website. I stared at the pictures until my eyes hurt. That is when I saw something else.
On the hotel's main page, there was a group photo of guests. There were families and couples. In the corner of the photo, I saw a man wearing sunglasses. It was my ex-boyfriend. He was standing in the exact same spot where he stood in my Polaroid photo.
The date on the website said August 2018.
I shut my laptop quickly. My heart was racing. He was there too. He knew about this. He had to know.
The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn't focus on work. I felt like I couldn't breathe because the mystery was so heavy. By the time I got home, I had made a choice. I needed to get answers.
I called his phone number. It rang a long time before he answered. His voice sounded tired and angry. "What do you want?" he asked.
I didn't say hello. I just said, "The beach. Myrtle Beach. August 2018. You took me there."
There was silence on the other end. Then, he laughed. It was a mean, fake laugh. "What are you talking about?"
"The photos," I said. "The Seaview Inn. I found them. Don't lie to me."
There was more silence. I imagined him walking around his room, nervous. He always did that when he was lying.
Finally, he spoke. "You are going crazy."
"No," I shouted. "I saw you! You are on the hotel website. You were there. We were both there!"
His voice changed. It became lower and very tight. He sounded like he was panicking. "Do not call me again," he said.
Then, he hung up.
I stared at my phone. I felt a mix of anger and fear. He was hiding something from me. He wasn't just annoyed; he was scared. That meant I was right.
I walked back and forth in my apartment until it got dark. My thoughts were spinning. If he knew the truth, he was keeping a secret. If he was keeping a secret, I had to find out what it was.
But I never got the chance to look further.
That night, I went to close my curtains. I saw something stuck to the window. It was another Polaroid photo. It was taped to the glass from the outside.
My hands were shaking as I pulled it off the glass.
The photo showed me. I was standing in that exact spot, pulling the curtains closed. I turned the photo over to look at the back.
The date on the back said: Tomorrow.
Chapter 3 Yesterday's Picture
I did not touch the photo at first. I couldn't.
The Polaroid sat on my kitchen counter where I had dropped it. The light from above reflected off its shiny surface. It felt like the photo was making fun of me. Every time I walked past it, my fingers shook, but I forced myself not to look. Not yet.
Finding another photo taped to my window was bad enough. But the date on the back was even worse. It said: Tomorrow.
It was impossible. Photos show the past, not the future. But there I was in the picture. I saw my hand on the curtain and my head turned to the side. It was the exact moment I had just lived through. But it wasn't labeled with today's date. It was labeled one day ahead.
I spent the whole night walking back and forth. My nerves felt like tight wires ready to snap. Every sound made me jump. Every creak of the floor or hum of the fridge was terrifying. My apartment felt like a trap, and the walls were closing in on me.
Near morning, I was so tired that I fell onto the couch. I slept a little bit, but I had bad dreams. I dreamed of beaches I had never seen and Christmas trees I had never decorated. When I woke up, the first thing I did was check the photo again.
It was still there. It was still me. It still said tomorrow.
The smart part of my brain tried to find an answer. Maybe the date was a mistake? Maybe the person who wrote it made a slip? Maybe it wasn't me at all, but just a trick? But I knew the truth.
I knew because of the shirt I was wearing in the photo. It was a gray t-shirt with a small hole near the neck. It had been sitting on my bedroom floor for weeks. I hadn't worn it in a long time-until last night.
The thought made my skin crawl. Whoever was taking these photos wasn't just watching me. They were predicting what I would do. Or maybe they were controlling me. The idea made me feel sick.
By noon, I was filled with fear. I needed answers. The only person I could talk to was my ex-boyfriend. He was the one who acted like he didn't know anything, but his voice had sounded scared when I mentioned the beach. I looked at his name in my phone. My gut told me not to call. He usually just lied to me anyway. But he was my only lead.
I called him. It rang and then went to voicemail. I hung up and called again. This time, he picked up. His voice was sharp and angry. "I told you not to call me," he said.
"You lied," I told him. My throat was tight. "You lied about Myrtle Beach and the photos."
He was quiet. I could hear cars driving in the background. Then he spoke. "You don't understand what you are dealing with."
"Then tell me!" I shouted.
"I can't," he said. His voice cracked. For the first time, he didn't sound mean. He sounded afraid. "They will know if I talk."
"They?" I asked.
Click. He hung up.
I stared at my phone. My chest felt cold. He said "They." He didn't say "I." He didn't say I was crazy. He said *they*. This meant he wasn't doing this alone. Or maybe someone else was behind everything.
The day felt like a dream. I couldn't eat or work. I just walked around my apartment. I checked the locks on the doors. I closed all the blinds. I waited for a sound outside. By the afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
I grabbed the box and all the photos. I stuffed them into my backpack. If I stayed in this apartment, I would go crazy. I had to do something. I had to go to the only place I knew: The Seaview Inn.
Myrtle Beach was a six-hour drive. I knew it was a wild idea, but I had already decided. The photo with tomorrow's date was in my bag. It felt like it was burning me. If the photos could show me my past, maybe the hotel could show me my future.
I left as the sun was going down. The highway was a blur under my car lights. The city disappeared, and soon there were only dark forests and empty fields. The farther I drove, the more scared I felt. I felt like I was walking into a trap.
After midnight, I was too tired to drive. I stopped at a small motel. It was an old place with a flickering neon sign. The room smelled like bleach. I locked the door and pushed a chair under the handle. Then I fell onto the bed.
I fell asleep fast, but my dreams were scary. I dreamed of mirrors. I saw dozens of versions of myself standing in rows. Each one was a little bit different. One had a smile that was too wide. One had eyes that looked dead. They all whispered together. I couldn't hear the words until one version of me pressed against the glass and said: We are not done.
I woke up gasping for air. I was covered in sweat. On the small table next to the bed, propped up against the lamp, was another Polaroid.
My blood turned to ice.
The photo showed me in this exact room. I was tangled in the sheets, sleeping. I turned the photo over. The date on the back said: Yesterday.
I stared at it until my eyes blurred. I wanted to scream, but I was too afraid. Who had been in my room? How did they get in without me hearing?
I searched the whole room. I looked under the bed. I checked the closet. I pulled back the shower curtain. There was no one there. There was only the smell of the room and the sound of the air conditioner.
But the photo was real. The "me" in the photo was real. And the date-Yesterday-made no sense.
The photo in my apartment showed the future. This photo showed the past. But it was a past that shouldn't exist. I wasn't in this motel yesterday. I was in my apartment. It was like someone was changing time around me using these photos.
I put the photo in my bag. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall. I held my knees to my chest and waited for the sun to come up. My mind was spinning with scary thoughts.
When the morning light came through the curtains, I was ready to leave. I didn't eat breakfast. I didn't stop for gas until I absolutely had to. I just kept driving south toward the Seaview Inn. I wanted answers.
But one question stayed in my mind the whole way: If someone can take a photo of my tomorrow and my yesterday... what is happening to me today.