The Echo That Wasn't Mine

By Bineet Dwivedy

Viraj Sen prided himself on being a rational man. A top-tier executive in one of India's leading tech firms, he thrived on logic, structure, and control. He had spent years climbing the corporate ladder, sacrificing sleep, friendships, and even love in exchange for precision and certainty.

But certainty shattered the day he noticed the echo that wasn’t his.

It started subtly.

During conference calls, when he spoke, the echo lingered too long—a fraction beyond the expected reverberation.

Once, in his office, he clicked his pen, and somewhere in the distance, he swore he heard another click, delayed by a beat.

He brushed it off—until the echoes began to repeat words he hadn’t said.

One evening, walking home through the quiet corridors of his high-rise apartment, he muttered, "Long day."

The echo followed, soft yet distinct.

"Yes, it was."

Viraj froze.

He hadn’t said that.

He turned swiftly, scanning the empty hallway. No one. No hidden speakers. No malfunctioning intercoms.

He was alone.

Yet, something had responded.

The next morning, he woke restless, weary from chasing non-existent sounds in the night. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth, and muttered under his breath, "Need coffee."

The echo came.

"You always do."

This time, Viraj stumbled back from the sink.

He hadn’t imagined it. The words were not his own.

The next weeks became a psychological labyrinth.

He stopped speaking altogether, testing if silence would erase the echoes. But even in his quietest moments, when he simply thought words, he heard a faint, whispering response.

"I know what you're thinking."

By then, his mind was a war zone—a clash between logic and fear.

He saw a psychiatrist, who assured him it was simply stress-induced auditory hallucination. But Viraj knew better.

Hallucinations didn’t anticipate his thoughts.

Then came the final breaking point.

One night, unable to sleep, he stood before his bathroom mirror, staring at his tired reflection. His jaw tightened, fists clenched.

He whispered, "What do you want?"

Silence.

Then—so soft he nearly missed it—the echo returned.

"To be you."

Viraj stumbled back. The lights flickered, and his breathing turned shallow.

For the first time in his life, he felt utterly powerless.

The days that followed were filled with dread.

Every sound—the ticking of a clock, the creak of his chair, the rustling of paper—felt duplicated. As though something just beyond his perception was mimicking his life, a fraction behind.

Then, one morning, he woke up and realized something horrifying.

The echoes had stopped.

At first, relief washed over him. Until, slowly, an even deeper fear gripped him.

The sounds hadn’t ceased.

He had.

He sat motionless in bed, waiting—expecting the faint repetition, the whispering reply. But nothing came.

No echo. No delay. Only silence.

And then—through the quiet, in the mirror across the room—he saw it.

His reflection blinked first.

By Bineet Dwivedy