I Keep Finding Notes I Don’t Remember Writing — But They Know Everything About Me

It started with a sticky note on my bathroom mirror.

“Don’t forget to smile. Even if it feels fake.”

I thought I wrote it. Maybe during a breakdown or one of those nights when I dissociate and just do things. But I don’t remember writing it. And the handwriting—it looked like mine, but not quite.

A week later, I found another one.

“Stop pretending you're okay. You’re not. And that’s fine.”

Tucked between pages of a book I hadn’t opened in years. Same handwriting. Same tone. Gentle, but knowing. Like it saw right through me.

I live alone. No one has keys but me. And I don’t talk about these things out loud—not to friends, not even to a therapist. No one knows what goes on inside my head.

Except whoever is leaving the notes.

“You still sleep with the light on, even though you tell people you’re not scared of the dark.”

That one was taped under my desk. I found it while cleaning. My hands trembled. It’s true. I never told anyone that.

Then came the note that shattered me:

“He wasn’t your fault.”

Just six words, but they hit like a scream.

I hadn’t thought about him in years. I buried it. Buried him.

And the guilt.

How would anyone know what I blamed myself for?

That night, I barely slept. I kept the lights on. I turned my apartment upside down, searching for hidden cameras, listening devices, anything. Nothing. No signs of a break-in. No strangers watching. Just me. And the notes.

I started keeping them. Pinned them to my bedroom wall. Dozens now. Some comforting. Some brutal. All true.

“You fake laughter too often.”

“You push people away before they can leave.”

“You still remember her birthday.”

“You didn’t deserve what happened.”

The notes didn’t scare me anymore. They… understood me. Better than anyone else ever had. Whoever wrote them didn’t judge. Didn’t run.

They just knew.

Yesterday, I found one under my pillow. Folded neatly, like a goodbye letter.

“You’re almost ready to meet me.”

I stared at it for hours.

Who is “me”?

Me, the writer?

Me, the person I used to be?

Me, the person I could become?

Today, I haven’t found a note yet. For the first time in weeks, I feel the silence.

I think… maybe the notes were from me after all. Not the version sitting here now, typing this. But the version deep inside me—the one I tried to shut out. The version that remembers. The one that feels. The one that refuses to forget.

Maybe healing isn’t loud. Maybe it comes in whispers. Left behind like breadcrumbs, reminding you that you’ve been lost before… and found your way back.

So I’ve written a note of my own.

It says:

“I’m listening now.”