Blame my Shadow

The Version of You, I Don't Like

I wake up to the sound of whispering.

Not the gentle kind. Not the kind lovers share in the dark. This is clipped, urgent, restrained. The kind of whisper meant to hide panic, not affection.

Sarah's voice.

It slips through the cracked door of the balcony like smoke.

I don't move at first. My body stays still under the sheet, but every nerve inside me sharpens. I count her sentences by the rise and fall of her breath. I can't hear the words, only the tone. Controlled. Careful. Afraid of being overheard.

She isn't talking to me.

The realization settles in my chest like a stone.

I sit up in bed without making a sound and let my feet touch the cold floor. The apartment is dark except for the thin blade of light cutting in from the hallway. My reflection in the black TV screen looks wrong—eyes too alert for a man who hasn't slept, face too still for someone this unstable.

By the time the balcony door slides shut, I am already sitting upright on the edge of the bed, perfectly still, positioned so that the light from the hallway slices across my face and leaves the rest of me in shadow. I don't plan it. It just happens. Instinct. Theatre. Or something else wearing both.

The bedroom door opens.

Sarah steps in.

She freezes when she sees me.

"Ethan..." Her voice breaks on my name. "Why are you sitting like that?"

I don't answer.

I let the silence stretch until it begins to suffocate.

"You think I'm the killer, don't you?" I ask. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's flat. Emptied. Stripped of all the pleading that used to live in it.

"No," she says too fast. "No, of course not."

I tilt my head slightly. "Sarah, I shouldn't even be asking you this, but whose side are you on?"

Her mouth opens. She inhales. No sound comes out.

I start before she can speak. "Didn't you say you'd never leave me? There's a killer on the loose, Sarah. He knows me. He knows me too well. Which means he knows you too. I am trying so hard to protect you and you keep running back to the people who want to cage me."

"I'm not—"

"I'm not the killer," I say louder. "I swear I'm not. I'm not confused about that anymore. I know I didn't kill anyone because I know who did."

Her eyes widen. Just a fraction.

"Who is it?" she whispers.

"I'm still figuring him out," I say. "Just give me some time."

She stands there shaking, like a glass held at the edge of a table.

Then she suddenly rushes forward and kisses me.

It's desperate. Forceful. Wrong.

I push her away.

"Where were you last night?" I ask.

"I was here," she says.

"No, you weren't." My voice hardens. "Sarah, where were you?"

"I was with you," she insists. "Here."

Something inside me snaps.

I grab the vase beside the bed and hurl it across the room. It explodes against the wall. The glass table shatters beneath the impact.