His Perfect Lyra

Lyra's POV-

I stand in front of the small mirror, staring back at myself with a dead expression.

No emotion. No spark. Just… me. Or whoever I'm supposed to be now.

I brush my teeth in silence.

Then I move to the table.

There it is.

A neatly plated breakfast—fried egg over white rice, spam, and a few side vegetables.

Smells decent.

Looks warm.

I pick up the fork.

Then pause.

My hand lowers.

I bow my head.

Eyes closed. Hands together.

I pray.

Not because I believe in it.

Because he said I have to.

The first time I walked to this table, there was a note waiting for me.

Lyra,

 You must pray properly before eating.

It is a rule.

Please follow it.

 —Silas

Silas…

The name meant nothing when I first saw it. Still doesn't.

Who the hell is he? A stalker? A stranger I never knew?

Or worse—someone I used to know but can't remember?

That possibility haunts me more than anything.

I eat because I have to.

Not because I trust it.

But survival doesn't ask questions.

Sometimes I wonder if I did know him.

Maybe we were friends once.

Maybe he was just a face in a hallway.

But why can't I remember?

And Lyra…

Is that even my name?

I'm almost sure it's not.

It doesn't sound like me.

But no matter how hard I try, my real name won't come.

Not a single memory.

No fragments, no flashes.

Just this…blank.

And the worst part? My head isn't even injured.

After breakfast, I take a shower.

Clean clothes sit folded in the basket, exactly like yesterday and two day ago and even three days ago. 

I dress. Dry my hair. Do nothing. Wait.

I get free time until the next movie plays.

I've searched every inch of this room.

Every drawer. Every corner.

Posters, furniture, fridge, washroom.

Over and over.

The results never change.

No clocks.

No calendar.

No newspapers.

No music.

No news.

No time.

Just a perfectly curated, decent-sized room: 

Full-sized bed.

Small TV.

Worn-out brown couch.

Single table. One chair.

Tiny fridge, only stocked with water bottles

A bathroom barely big enough for one person—sink, toilet, shower.

Like a f**king cage.

A cage designed for me.

He built this world around me.

Every inch designed to keep me here.

Controlled. Watched. Known.

And worst of all… he knows me.

He knows what I like.

What I hate.

There's never a single food I can't stand.

No peas.

Never peas.

He remembers that.

My favorite color is yellow—so of course, the blanket is yellow.

The sheets.

Even the stupid little duck plushie on the bed.

He remembered that, too.

He knows me too well.

That's what terrifies me.

I walk to the right-hand wall.

It's the only place I'm allowed to draw or write.

Another note is taped there, like a parent leaving a message on a fridge.

You can draw or write here

only this wall.

I only have black charcoal,

so use that. 

 -Silas

Always signed. Always rules.

Why does he enjoy playing with my mind?

I grab the charcoal and draw a short, vertical line beside the others.

I count them under my breath.

"That makes seven."

Seven lines.

Seven days.

A full week.

And still no sign of him.