Gone

The first time Tim saw his name missing from the school roster, he thought it was a clerical mistake.

"Maybe they just forgot to print it," he muttered to himself, staring at the list pinned to the bulletin board. His classmates' names stretched down the page, neatly typed and arranged alphabetically.

Ties. Tigran. Tilford.

But no Tim.

A cold, prickling sensation crawled up his spine. The hallway buzzed with the usual morning rush — friends laughing, lockers slamming shut, the rhythmic tap of hurried footsteps against tile — but for the first time, Tim felt outside of it, like he was standing in a place where sound couldn't quite reach him.

It wasn’t just the roster. That day, when the teacher took attendance, she skimmed over his name entirely.

"Ties?”

"Here.”

"Tigran?”

"Here.”

Tim raised his hand, clearing his throat. "Um, you missed me.”

The teacher frowned, scanning the sheet. "Are you sure you're in this class?”

A few students chuckled, and Tim felt heat rise to his face. His pulse throbbed in his ears, but it was quieter than usual, like he was listening through layers of cotton.

"Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I've been here all semester.”

She shrugged, made a quick note, and moved on.

That night, Tim checked his social media accounts. His profile was intact, but it felt... thin, like something on the verge of unraveling. His posts, which normally gathered at least a few likes or comments from classmates, sat untouched. His messages to friends hung in limbo, marked as "delivered" but never "seen.”

He posted a selfie with a simple caption- "Do I even exist?”

No likes. No comments.

A slow dread crept into his bones.

The phenomenon spread.

At first, it was little things — his name missing from group projects, teachers forgetting to return his assignments. Then his favorite barista at the café stared blankly when he ordered, as if she’d never seen him before. The cashier at the grocery store handed him change without a word, barely acknowledging his presence.

One day, Tim found an old childhood photo album tucked away in his closet. He flipped through the pages, scanning for his face among birthday parties, family vacations, Christmas mornings.

His sister, his parents, even the family dog — all there.

But where he should have been, there was nothing but blank space. Not even a shadow or an awkward cropping of the frame. It was as though the universe had gently brushed him away, smoothing out the evidence of his existence.

His hands shook. He flipped faster, desperate, his breath growing shallow.

Empty. Every time.

The air in the room felt thinner. His fingers tingled with a pins-and-needles sensation, as if the blood in his veins wasn’t moving quite the way it should. A high-pitched ringing started in his ears, faint but insistent, like a dog whistle only he could hear.

Tim grabbed his phone, fingers slipping on the screen as he dialed his mother’s number.

She answered after the second ring. “Hello?”

"Mom, it's me.”

A pause. A strange pause. The kind that stretched, thick and unnatural.

"Who?”

His stomach lurched. "Tim. Your son.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just empty — it was void. The static in the air grew denser, pressing against his eardrums, making his breath feel too loud in his own head.

“I — I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice distant. “I think you have the wrong number.”

The line clicked dead.

Tim stared at the screen. His own mother.

Something was terribly wrong.

The city felt colder, emptier. Buildings loomed taller, shadows stretched longer. As Tim walked, his footsteps sounded off, muffled, like he was walking across a carpeted floor even though he was on solid pavement.

He needed proof — something, anything — to remind himself he was real.

He sprinted through the empty streets, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears. But even that started to feel distant, like the sound waves weren’t carrying as far as they should.

At a corner café, he yanked open the door, the bell jingling faintly overhead. The barista glanced up but didn’t react.

Tim stepped up to the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white.

“You know me,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “You used to know me.”

The barista frowned. “Uh… sorry?”

Tim’s mouth went dry. He gestured wildly. “I come here all the time. I always order—”

He looked at the menu, his thoughts scattering like torn pages in the wind. His favorite drink.

What was it?

What did I used to order?

The barista was already turning away.

Tim grabbed a napkin and a pen, scrawling his name in jagged strokes. Tim Carter. I am here.

He shoved the napkin toward her. “Just — just read it. Please.”

She glanced down, eyes flickering with something — almost recognition. But then, in a single blink, the ink bled outward, the letters dissolving into blank whiteness.

Tim gasped, stumbling back as nausea rolled through him. It wasn’t just his name being forgotten.

It was his entire presence.

At some point, his feet carried him to the bridge. He didn’t remember deciding to go there. He didn’t remember walking. It was as if the city had guided him, as if it knew it was time.

The wind howled across the water. Tim stood at the edge, staring down at the dark, rippling river. The air felt too light, like it could lift him away with a single breath.

A whisper of wind curled around him.

"You’re not the first.”

Tim turned sharply.

A girl stood a few feet away. Dark hair tangled from the wind. Eyes shadowed with something old and weary.

She saw him. Really saw him.

His breath caught. “You — see me?”

She nodded. “For now.”

Tim swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t know anymore. I used to be like you.”

A shiver ran through him. "You mean... you're vanishing, too?”

She gave a hollow laugh, the kind that didn’t belong to someone young. “Am vanishing. Every day, a little more.” She lifted a hand, turning it palm-up.

Tim's stomach twisted. The edges of her fingers were... wrong. The skin blurred, flickering like a dying signal, parts of her there one second and gone the next.

He clenched his fists. “How long?”

She gave a small shrug. “Long enough to stop counting.”

Tim’s breath hitched.

He wasn’t alone.

But if he didn’t fight, he would be.

Forever