He stood in the doorway, my twin — but more than that. He moved like he belonged here, like I was the intruder in my own skin.
“You’re lying,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m real. I’m me.”
His head tilted, that same crooked, knowing tilt. “If you were real, would you need to convince yourself?”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. He took a slow step closer.
“I’ll prove it,” I said, my voice stronger now. “I have memories. A life. Friends.”
He laughed softly — my laugh, but hollow, like it had been worn down. “Do you? Or do you have what I left you?”
I felt my stomach twist.
He reached into his pocket again and pulled out another photo.
It wasn’t a picture of me this time. It was a picture of him, standing outside my office. My apartment. My favorite café. Places I went every day — but in the photo, he wasn’t watching me.
He was living my life. Talking to my coworkers. Laughing with my friends.
The timestamp on the photo was from yesterday.
"You went to work yesterday," I whispered, my voice barely there.
He smiled. "No. I went to work yesterday."
The lamp felt useless in my hand now, like a child’s toy. My head spun. If he was out there… then what was I?
“You’re not supposed to ask that question,” he said softly. “That’s how the others broke.”
“Others?” My voice cracked.
He took another step forward. I stepped back — but there was nowhere left to go. My back hit the wall.
“There were others before you,” he said, voice calm, patient. “Copies. Failed ones. They all thought they were real too.”
My throat tightened. “What happened to them?”
He leaned in, his face inches from mine. His breath wasn’t warm. It was cold.
“They stopped believing.”
The room flickered — not the light, but the room itself, like a glitching video. My heart raced, and for a split second, I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore. I saw something else. A dark, endless hallway filled with doors — all slightly open, all whispering.
I blinked, and the room snapped back.
“You’re running out of time,” he said, voice low. “Soon, you’ll start to glitch too. And when you do... I’ll take it from here.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him, fight him — but my hands wouldn’t move.
He leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper now.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “They never remember it when it’s over.”
And then he was gone.
The door to my room was closed. The lamp was back on the nightstand. My hands were empty.
But the photo he left behind was still there, lying on the floor.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 7