Messages From My Own Number

It was exam week, and Bastian had a history exam at eight in the morning. His roommate, Kofi, left after dinner to study with a friend. Bastian made a big cup of coffee and opened his notes. Earlier that week, Kofi borrowed Bastian's old phone because his own screen was broken.

At eleven, Bastian went down the hall for more coffee. At 11:11, his phone buzzed. The message came from his own number. "Why are you still awake?" Bastian frowned. He picked up his notes again.

A minute later, the phone buzzed again. "Nice socks. Are they new?" Bastian looked down at his yellow socks, the ones with little bananas on them. He checked the window. Rain was hitting the glass, and the curtains were closed. The room was on the fourth floor. Nobody could see in.

Then a third message came: "Don't eat the last cookie." Bastian had the cookie in his hand. He put it back on the plate, very slowly. Was there a camera in the room? His neck felt cold.

The messages talked about his socks and his cookie, but never about the street or the rain outside. So the person was in the room with him.

Bastian looked at the closet. The door was open a little, and there was a weak blue light inside, like the light of a phone screen. He picked up his heavy history book and pulled the door open.

Kofi was sitting on the floor between the coats, with Bastian's old phone in his hand. He was laughing so hard that he couldn't speak. "I came back when you went for more coffee," he said at last. "Your old phone still has your account on it, so it sends messages from your number. You've studied for four hours. You needed a break!" Bastian looked at Kofi, then at the cookie. He ate it in one bite and went back to his notes. This time, he left the closet door wide open.