“Not Me” Six days ago, I came home and found myself already inside the house. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking my coffee from my mug, reading the exact book I’d left open on the counter that morning. When I stepped into the room, he looked up and smiled. “Hey. Rough day?” I froze. “Who… who are you?” “Funny. I was just about to ask you that.” I ran. I called the police. They searched the house. No one was there. No sign of forced entry. Nothing stolen. They said it was probably stress. “Delusional misidentification,” the officer mumbled. “Go home. Get some rest.” But when I got back, something was different. My toothbrush was wet. And the bed was still warm. Day 2 I asked my neighbor, Dana, if she’d seen anyone come or go from my house. She said she talked to me yesterday—at length—about her dog’s surgery. I wasn’t home yesterday. I told her that. She gave me a weird look and backed away, like she thought I was the dangerous one. Day 3 I started finding small differences. Photos on the wall reversed. My socks folded the wrong way. A voicemail on my phone from me, whispering: “You have to stop pretending. He knows what you’re doing.” I don’t remember recording it. But it’s my voice. Perfectly. Calm. Cold. Day 4 I set up a camera in the living room, pointed at the front door. At 2:33 a.m., someone walks in. It’s me. Same clothes. Same gait. But… off. Too smooth. Too emotionless. Like he’s wearing me like a costume. He walks to the camera. Smiles. Then the footage cuts out. Just static. Day 5 I stayed up all night, knife in hand, watching the front door. Nothing came. But I swear—I heard breathing behind the wall. Day 6 I was fired from my job. They said I hadn’t shown up in a week. But I’ve been there. I’ve been working. I remember meetings, phone calls, emails. They said all my emails were empty drafts. My phone logs—blank. Like I’d just been staring, typing nonsense, and hitting send. Day 7 I think he’s inside me now. It’s getting harder to tell which thoughts are mine. I find myself standing in rooms I don’t remember walking into, holding objects I don’t recognize. I found a note in my own handwriting: “You don’t exist anymore. You’re the copy.” I didn’t write it. Unless I did. Today I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The reflection blinked a second too late. Then it smiled. I didn’t. Now I’m not sure if I’m the real one, or if I replaced the real one. But here’s the part that really terrifies me: What if there was never a real one?
