Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him — wearing my face, living my life. Smiling with my smile. Talking to my friends. Walking through my world like he belonged there more than I did.
But tonight was different.
I heard the front door unlock.
I didn’t live with anyone. I didn’t even own a key for that lock. My heart slammed against my ribs as I sat up, listening.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming up the stairs.
I grabbed the lamp from my nightstand and waited, forcing myself to breathe quietly. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.
It wasn’t like the photos anymore. It wasn’t a blurry face in the background or a distorted reflection.
He was me.
Same clothes. Same scar on my arm. Even the same tired look in his eyes — except his eyes weren’t tired. They were calm. Amused.
“I was wondering how long you’d last,” he said softly, his voice a perfect match for mine. “They usually give up by now.”
I tightened my grip on the lamp. My hands were shaking. “Who are you?”
His head tilted. My head tilted.
“I’m not wearing your face,” he said, taking a step closer. “You’re wearing mine.”
My throat tightened. “That’s not true.”
He took another step. I took one back.
“Think about it,” he said quietly. “Do you remember what you looked like before all this? Before the photos?”
The lamp felt heavier in my hand. My mind raced. I… couldn’t. I could remember memories, moments — but not my face. Not really.
His smile widened. “You’re not the original. You’re the copy. I’ve been waiting to come back.”
The floor felt like it dropped out from under me.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo.
It was of me. No — of him. Standing in my room, holding the same lamp I was holding now.
“I think it’s time you understood,” he said softly, voice low and steady. “You were never supposed to be here.”
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 6