It was a regular Thursday, the kind where everything feels painfully average. I was halfway through watching a rerun of a show I didn’t care about when my phone buzzed.
“Pick me up from work now. It’s urgent.”
It was from my wife, Emily.
I didn’t even hesitate. There was no punctuation, no emojis—just short and direct, which wasn’t like her. She always added a heart or at least a “please.” But I figured maybe something had happened at the office. I threw on a jacket and grabbed my keys.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to her building. She stepped out the doors a few minutes later, looking relaxed… until she spotted me.
Her expression shifted instantly to confusion. “What are you doing here?” she asked, walking over slowly.
“You texted me,” I said, unlocking the car door. “Said it was urgent?”
Her face went pale. “I never texted you,” she whispered.
I pulled out my phone and showed her the message. Her hand trembled slightly as she read it, then without a word, she reached into her coat pocket.
That’s when I noticed it—how stiffly she moved. Almost… scared.
She pulled out her phone and turned the screen toward me.
The same message.
Same words. Same time stamp. Same sender.
But she hadn’t sent it.
And I hadn’t sent it.
We sat there in stunned silence for a few seconds. Then Emily said, almost to herself, “This is happening again…”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean again?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she opened her phone’s photo gallery and pulled up a picture I’d never seen. It looked like it had been taken from across the street, through a window. It was me, sitting on the couch at home—wearing the exact same clothes I had on now.
“I got this photo two nights ago,” she said quietly. “From an unknown number. No message. Just the picture. I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to scare you. But now I think someone’s watching us. Playing with us.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed her hand. “Let’s go home. Now.”
We drove in silence. Every car that passed felt suspicious. Every shadow too long.
When we got home, our front door was unlocked.
I never forget to lock it.
I stepped in first, telling Emily to stay behind me. Everything looked normal. Nothing broken, nothing missing.
Until I noticed the note on the coffee table.
Written in my handwriting.
“She’s not who you think she is.”
We both stared at it.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
“Nice of you to bring her home.”
