Tom opened his eyes to the dim light filtering through the half-drawn blinds. The room smelled of stale coffee and something faintly metallic, like blood or rust. He reached out instinctively to the side of the bed where Anna used to sleep, but his hand met only cool, rumpled sheets. It had been three months since she vanished without a trace, or so his mind told him. The calendar on the nightstand confirmed it: July 15th. The same date every time he woke up.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. Headaches had become his constant companion, throbbing reminders of the nights he spent poring over their photos, trying to piece together the puzzle of her disappearance. Anna, with her laughing green eyes and auburn hair that caught the sunlight like fire. They had met in college, fallen in love over late-night study sessions and shared dreams of a quiet life. Marriage, a small house on the outskirts of town, plans for children that never materialized. Perfect, until it wasn’t.

The kitchen was spotless, as always. Tom prided himself on keeping things in order after she left. He brewed coffee, the machine gurgling like an old friend. As he sipped, memories surfaced unbidden. Their last dinner together: candlelight, her favorite pasta, the way she smiled when he surprised her with flowers. But then, a flicker—did she smile, or was it a grimace? Had the flowers been a peace offering after a fight he couldn’t quite recall?

He shook his head. Paranoia. That’s what the doctor had called it during their one visit to the clinic. ‘Stress,’ he’d said. ‘Take some time off work.’ But Tom couldn’t afford time off. Not with the bills piling up, the house payments. Anna had handled the finances; now it was all on him. He glanced at the stack of unopened envelopes on the counter. Later.

Work was a blur. Data entry at the call center, voices droning through headphones. He imagined Anna’s voice among them, whispering his name. By lunchtime, he was doodling her face on a notepad, the lines sharper than usual. Her eyes looked accusatory. He crumpled it up.

That evening, he returned to the photo albums. Page after page of happiness: vacations, holidays, anniversaries. But tonight, something was off. In the picture from their fifth anniversary, her hand on his arm—did her fingers dig in too hard? Bruises? No, shadows. Trick of the light. He flipped further back. Wedding day. She looked radiant. But her smile… tight, forced?

Sleep evaded him. Dreams came in fragments: Anna screaming, a door slamming, his hands pushing— no, pulling her close. He woke sweating, heart pounding. The clock read 3:17 AM. Always the same time.

Days blended into weeks. Tom stopped going to work, living off savings. He scoured the internet for any sign of her. Social media profiles frozen in time, friends who hadn’t heard from her. ‘She left you, Tom,’ one posted in a group chat he hacked into. ‘Good riddance.’ Lies. They were jealous.

He started noticing things in the house. A scarf in the closet that wasn’t hers—wait, it was. A note in her handwriting: ‘I can’t take this anymore.’ Forged? His mind raced. He taped the photos to the walls, connecting them with string like a detective. Patterns emerged: her withdrawing, him pressing closer. Obsession? No, love.

One night, the power flickered. In the darkness, he heard her voice. ‘Tom… why?’ From the basement. He grabbed a flashlight, descended the creaky stairs. Dust motes danced in the beam. Boxes of her things: clothes, books, a diary he hadn’t touched.

He opened it, pages yellowed. Entries from years ago: ‘Tom is sweet, but intense. Watches me sleep.’ Then, ‘Fights every night. He says it’s passion.’ Later: ‘Locks the doors. Says for safety. I’m scared.’ His stomach churned. Lies. She was unstable.

But doubt crept in. He remembered a night—her crying, him yelling about her ‘flirting’ with the neighbor. Had he grabbed her wrist? The mark the next day—mosquito bite, he’d said.

The headaches worsened. Visions assaulted him: Anna packing a bag, him blocking the door. ‘You’ll never leave me.’ Did he say that? No, impossible.

He called her phone, long disconnected. Voicemail: her voice, cheerful. ‘Leave a message.’ He did, sobbing apologies.

Weeks passed. The house felt smaller, walls closing in. Food rotted in the fridge. He lived on memories now.

One afternoon, rummaging for old letters, he found a hidden compartment in the bedroom floor. A small box. Inside: hospital records. Anna’s name, but… suicide attempt? No, his name? Wait.

Papers spilled out: psychiatric evaluations. ‘Patient exhibits delusional disorder, persecutory type. Believes spouse abandoned him despite evidence of mutual separation.’ Separation?

Photos: Anna alive, happy, with a new man. Dated after she ‘left.’ But the timestamps…

His reflection in the bedroom mirror caught his eye. Gaunt, wild-eyed. Not the man in the photos. Younger, happier.

A key turned in the front door. Footsteps. ‘Tom? It’s me.’ Anna’s voice.

He hid, heart thundering. She entered the bedroom, older, weary. Placed flowers on the nightstand. Muttered, ‘Still talking to ghosts.’

She opened a drawer, pulled out pills. His pills. ‘Time for your meds, love.’

The room spun. Memories rewrote themselves. Not three months—three years. She hadn’t left; he had broken. The accident: he drove drunk, crashed. Anna survived, cared for him. But his mind fractured, convinced she abandoned him to hide the guilt of causing the crash, nearly killing her.

No—the twist deepened. Flash of true memory: the crash was her fault, she was driving, high on pills. But he took the blame in his delusions? No.

She approached the mirror—no, him cowering. ‘Tom, come out. It’s over.’

In that moment, the veil lifted. Anna never left. He had driven her away with abuse, gaslighting, control. The ‘disappearance’ was her suicide. He found her too late, and his mind, to survive, invented her return, her leaving again, looping the guilt into abandonment.

The box: her suicide note. ‘Tom, your love suffocated me.’ The records: his therapy, denying it all.

She was never coming back. The footsteps? Hallucination. The house empty.

Tom collapsed, the truth crashing down. Every loving memory tainted—manipulation. Every fight, his rage. He had killed her spirit long before the pills.

In the silence, he whispered, ‘Forgive me.’ But the only echo was his own fractured mind.