The walls were the same, but the pictures weren’t mine. They were of him — the other me. Same face, same body… but his life.
He was in places I’d never been. Smiling with people I didn’t know. In one photo, he held a birthday cake. The candles burned too bright. In another, he was standing by a woman, her face blurred, her hand in his.
There was a final picture on the nightstand. It was him — staring at me through the mirror, wearing my clothes. And behind him… I was there too.
But my face wasn’t blurred. It was gone.
Just smooth skin where my features should be.
My chest tightened. My throat burned. I turned to the door.
It wasn’t a door anymore. It was a mirror.
He stood on the other side, watching me. His head tilted, slow and deliberate.
He raised his hand, and I raised mine — not by choice. My body wasn’t mine anymore.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 12