There’s a man outside my window. I think he has no face.

  Ethan Rowe squinted through the city’s evening glow, his apartment bathed in the sickly orange hue of a distant streetlight. The man stood motionless across the street, half-hidden by the flickering neon sign of a closed diner. There was something wrong with his features—not blurred, not masked, just… absent. As if the world had skipped a detail, like a rendering error in reality itself.

  Ethan rubbed his eyes. Hallucinations were nothing new. He’d been seeing things since he was a teenager—figures lurking in his periphery, voices whispering through the walls. His meds usually kept it in check, grounding him in reality. But lately, things had been slipping. Objects weren’t where he left them. Conversations looped in strange ways. And now, the faceless man.

  He turned away, shaking his head. Don’t engage. Acknowledge it’s not real, and move on. That’s what Dr. Hart always said.

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  His phone buzzed. A message from Jonah.

  You okay?

  Ethan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. Yeah, just tired.

  Jonah’s reply came instantly. You sure? You sound off.

  Ethan hesitated. Maybe he should tell someone. But what would he even say? Hey, I think my brain is unraveling again, and there’s a faceless nightmare outside my apartment? Yeah, that wouldn’t go over well.

  Instead, he typed: I’m fine. Just the usual.

  A pause. Then:

  Who is this?

  Ethan frowned, his fingers hovering over the screen. What? It’s me. Ethan.

  No response.

  He glanced back outside.

  The faceless man was gone.

  A shiver ran down his spine, and for the first time in months, he felt a prickle of genuine fear. Because despite everything—despite the medication, the therapy, the rational explanations—Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just noticed him.

  Something real.

  And worse, something had already started forgetting him.