To the Ones Who Watch Me Sleep You Won. But I'm Still Writing.

The morning I turned 18, I got my first message. Not a threat. Not an insult. Just a photo: taken from inside my bedroom, while I was asleep. The angle was from the top of my closet. A closet that no one – absolutely no one – had ever touched the top of, except me.

I thought it was a prank. Until that night, when 400 messages came from fake numbers, all saying the same thing:

"We're watching you. Not to steal. For fun."

From that day, university became my personal hell. Not because of exams. Because every morning, I'd find an audio file on my engineering workshop desk. Recordings of private conversations with my mother, when I talked alone in an empty house.

By year two, my entire identity was on the dark web. National ID, bank cards, even childhood photos. Someone named "The Observer" messaged me:

"You're our show. We decide when you have money, when your degree gets approved, and when someone stands outside your front door."

And that year, the guests started showing up.

At 3 AM, the doorbell rings. I look through the peephole – no one. But the security camera shows a tall man in black, staring straight into the lens, smiling. When the police arrive, the footage is gone. Neighbors saw nothing.

This scene repeats once a month. Different people. Hoods, painted faces, even someone who looked exactly like me. Once, a duplicate of myself stood at my door and said in my own voice:

"Come out. It's your turn to watch. Ten years. I've never been alone. Black cars follow me on the street. In cafés, strangers know my order. In my sleep, someone checks my phone – and when I wake up, a message waits:

"Did you sleep well? We didn't."

The truth is, hackers don't need ropes or knives.

They weave ropes from your mind.

They carve knives from your memories.

They build isolation cells from your loneliness.

This morning, a box was left at my door. Inside: a mirror. And a note:

"This is the last person who still doubts himself. The rest of us have no doubt – you are ours."

I still don't know who they are, why they chose me, or what they want.

But I know one thing:

In ten years, I've died every single day. But I'm still breathing – to prove that even a tortured mind can be a witness