The Strange Notification
I never meant to download it.
The icon appeared on my phone after an evening of mindless scrolling, the way a half-remembered dream shows up in your thoughts long after you’ve woken. I was lying on my bed, headphones in, letting some random playlist wash over me, when the screen of my phone flickered. For just a second, a tiny square of light shimmered in the corner of the display—something I was certain hadn’t been there before.
It was an app. No name, just a pale silver circle with a faint blue outline, glowing like the moon through fog. My first instinct was to delete it. After all, I’d heard horror stories about malware, phishing, strange programs that drained your battery or worse. But when I pressed down on the icon, the familiar “delete” option didn’t appear. Instead, the phone vibrated once, like a heartbeat, and the app opened on its own.
The screen turned black. Then white text appeared, sharp and clean:
“Welcome, Daniel.”
I blinked. My name. No login screen, no request for permissions, no need for me to type anything at all. Somehow, the app already knew who I was.
I should have felt afraid, but curiosity tugged at me harder. The words faded, and a new sentence appeared:
“Tomorrow, you will miss your morning bus.”
I stared at the prediction, confused. That was it? No explanation, no instructions, just a single statement about the next day.
I laughed, more out of unease than amusement. A prank app, maybe? Some elaborate joke hidden in the software store? I pressed the home button, half expecting the app to vanish, but the silver icon remained on my screen like a stubborn shadow.
That night, I went to sleep without thinking much more about it.
The next morning, I left my apartment at the usual time—7:45 sharp. The bus came at 7:52. I knew the routine so well I could have walked it blindfolded. I arrived at the stop, phone in hand, earbuds in place, scrolling through news headlines to kill the minutes.
At 7:51, just as the rumble of the bus engine grew louder in the distance, my phone buzzed. A message from an old college friend I hadn’t heard from in months. Without thinking, I opened it, smiling at the unexpected reunion.
By the time I looked up, the bus had already passed me. The driver didn’t see me wave. I cursed under my breath as the vehicle shrank into the distance.
I’d missed it.
Exactly as the app had predicted.
Coincidence, I told myself. It had to be. People miss buses all the time. But something about the exactness of the prediction gnawed at me. The app hadn’t said “you might be late” or “something will happen.” It had been precise: “You will miss your morning bus.”
Still, I brushed it off. I caught the next bus, arrived at work a little late, and tried to forget about the strange program.
But that night, as I was brushing my teeth, my phone vibrated again. I picked it up with toothpaste foam still in my mouth. The app had opened by itself, the same black background, the same white letters:
“Tomorrow, a stranger will speak your name.”
I frowned, spit into the sink, and wiped my mouth. That was… vague. Anyone could say my name. A coworker, a neighbor, a delivery driver. Not exactly shocking.
Yet a small shiver ran down my spine. The words glowed against the darkness of my room, daring me to test them.
I put the phone down and told myself, firmly, that I would not fall for it again.
The next day started normally. I arrived at work, endured the usual Monday morning meeting, and spent hours staring at spreadsheets. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth remembering. By late afternoon, I’d almost forgotten about the prediction.
Then, while walking home, it happened.
I stopped at a small coffee shop on the corner of Seventh Avenue, a place I’d never been before. The barista, a young woman with bright green hair, handed me a paper cup and smiled.
“Here you go, Daniel,” she said.
My stomach dropped.
I had never told her my name. I hadn’t given her my order in advance; I’d paid with cash. For a heartbeat, I just stared at her, my mind scrambling for an explanation. Maybe she’d overheard someone else say my name? Maybe she recognized me from somewhere?
But she was already busy with the next customer, humming to herself like nothing unusual had happened.
I walked home in a daze, the cup trembling in my hand.
That night, I sat on my bed, phone in my lap, waiting. My pulse thudded in my ears. When midnight came, the screen lit up by itself.
This time, the message was longer.
“Tomorrow, you will meet someone who will change your life.”
My heart raced.
This was no prank. No coincidence. Something—or someone—was speaking through this app, watching me, knowing me, pulling invisible strings in my life.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see tomorrow.
