I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her — in the mirror, in the corner of the room, in my own reflection.
Not a ghost.
Not a dream.
Me.
Or what I would become.
---
I opened the diary again. Flipping through pages I'd already read.
But now, there was a new one. In handwriting that hadn't been there before.
> "The moment you forget who you are, he wins."
My blood froze.
I hadn't written it.
But it was my handwriting.
---
Downstairs, he was humming.
Cooking.
Yes, cooking.
> "You always loved breakfast," he said. "Especially cinnamon toast. Remember?"
I didn't.
But I nodded anyway.
> "And almond tea, right?"
I paused.
Amelia was allergic to almonds.
So was I.
Weren't we?
He poured it anyway.
Smiled.
I drank it.
And didn't react.
---
My throat didn't close.
My skin didn't itch.
I wasn't allergic.
But Amelia was.
> "You remembered wrong," he said quietly. "You're not her."
His voice didn't sound victorious.
It sounded satisfied.
> "You're better."
---
Later that day, he gave me a phone.
A single contact: Dr. March.
No other names. No call log. No photos.
> "Just in case you feel like you're losing control."
I stared at the screen.
I was losing control.
But not the kind that a doctor could fix.
---
That night, I had a dream.
No — a memory.
Her memory.
---
She was in the bath.
The water red with roses… and something darker.
He was outside the door.
Whispering.
> "Don't leave me again."
"You're not allowed."
"You know what I gave up to keep you."
She cried.
And I felt it.
I woke up sobbing into her pillow.
---
My hands shook as I opened the diary again.
This time, the ink smeared like it was freshly written.
> "If you're still alive, find the box in the garden. Under the statue."
---
That morning, while he showered, I slipped outside.
Barefoot.
Heart racing.
Like it wanted to escape me.
The garden was overgrown.
Dead roses.
A cracked angel statue by the fence.
I dug.
With my fingers.
Until the dirt tore my nails.
Then I found it.
A tin box.
Wrapped in velvet.
Inside:
A flash drive
A broken necklace
And a folded photo of him…
…kissing someone who wasn't Amelia.
---
I didn't know who she was.
But something in my chest screamed.
Not with pain.
With truth.
---
And on the back of the photo:
> "He doesn't love either of us. He only loves the lie."