My legs felt too short, too light — his legs. My breath burned in my throat, but I didn’t stop. The shadows slithered behind me, fast and wrong, their limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t.
"Wrong one."
The voice echoed again, crawling under my skin. I didn’t know what it meant, but I wasn’t waiting to find out.
I reached the living room and skidded to a stop.
He was there.
Sitting on my couch. My body. My face. Wearing it like it belonged to him. He looked up, calm, holding a cup of coffee like he’d lived here his whole life.
“Hey,” he said, like we were old friends. “Took you long enough.”
My voice — his voice — sounded too normal, too casual.
“Give it back,” I said through clenched teeth.
He laughed softly, setting the cup down. “It doesn’t work like that. You gave it up the second you touched the glass.”
I took a shaky step forward. My hand trembled — his hand trembled.
“You stole my life.”
He leaned back, tilting his head the same way he always did in the photos. The way that wasn’t quite right.
“I didn’t steal anything.” His eyes darkened. “They chose me.”
The shadows pooled closer now, spilling into the room, circling him — circling us.
“They like me better,” he said, voice low, almost sad. “They always do.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. The shadows weren’t
The Stranger In My Photos 49 🤔🤔