It wasn’t saliva that disturbed me at first.
It was the way it appeared.
No intention.
No clear origin.
On the bathroom screen, the smart mirror shows a small notification.
A mark.
A damp point on the edge of the glass.
I ran my finger over it.
It wasn’t dirty.
It wasn’t dry either.
As if the glass had already been touched before.
I turned the screen off.
Turned it back on.
The mark was still there.
But now it was one millimeter higher.
I looked at the sink.
The tap was closed.
Still, the edge is newly wet.
I don’t remember using it.
I opened the bathroom system log.
There is a water usage record at 03:14.
I wasn’t awake at 03:14.
I read the line three times.
The third time I felt embarrassed.
Not because of the data.
Because I needed to check it again.
I looked back at the mirror.
The moisture is no longer on the edge.
It is in the center now.
And this time it has a shape.
A print.
Not mine.
Or not the one I remember.
I tried to wipe it away.
The paper tears on contact.
Not because of wetness.
Because of resistance.
As if the glass no longer wants to become dry again.
I looked at my hands.
They are not wet.
But there is a faint smell.
Like old saliva.
Like I had been speaking in my sleep.
That is what I don’t want to accept.
Because the next question is worse:
if someone was here… why did they leave only this?
And the even worse one:
why can’t my body tell the difference between being alone and not being alone?
My neck I should…
