The Version That Isn’t Me
803 Words
Sleep didn’t come that night.
Not even for a second.
Ivara lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on her like it knew something she didn’t.
“You belong to my story.”
The words refused to leave.
They replayed again and again, each time sinking deeper.
“What does that even mean…?” she whispered into the silence.
No answer.
Only the quiet hum of the city outside.
At some point, she must have closed her eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to escape.
And that’s when it happened.
—
She was back on the balcony.
But something was different.
The air felt heavier. Colder. Like time had slowed down.
“Ivara.”
Her name.
Right behind her.
This time—
she didn’t hesitate.
She turned.
And for the first time—
she saw him.
Not clearly.
Not completely.
But enough.
A silhouette. Tall. Still. Watching her like he had been waiting for this moment longer than she could understand.
Her breath caught.
“You…” she whispered.
Her feet moved on their own, stepping closer.
“Who are you?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood there.
As if the question didn’t matter.
As if she already knew.
“Why do you keep saying I forgot you?” her voice cracked slightly.
Silence.
Then—
he stepped closer.
And suddenly—
everything shifted.
The balcony.
The city.
The light.
Gone.
Replaced by something else.
A different room.
A different life.
And there—
she saw herself.
Another Ivara.
Sitting on the floor.
Crying.
Broken.
Alone.
“What… is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Her eyes locked onto that version of herself.
That girl looked younger.
Softer.
Not the strong, controlled woman she had become.
This Ivara looked like she hadn’t built anything yet.
Like she had lost everything instead.
“No…” she shook her head.
“That’s not me.”
“It was,” his voice came from beside her.
Calm.
Certain.
Ivara turned to him instantly.
“What do you mean was?”
He looked at her this time.
Not fully visible.
But closer.
Close enough for her to feel something shift inside her chest.
“You think this life you have now just… happened?” he said quietly.
Her heart started racing.
“I worked for this,” she snapped.
“I built everything I have.”
A pause.
Then—
“Did you?” he asked.
The question hit harder than it should have.
“What are you trying to say?”
He didn’t answer directly.
Instead, he gestured toward the other version of her—the one still crying on the floor.
“That night,” he said softly.
“You made a choice.”
Ivara’s breath slowed.
A strange fear settled in her chest.
“What choice…?”
Silence.
Then—
“You chose to forget.”
Her world stopped.
“What?”
“You couldn’t handle it,” he continued.
“The pain. The loss. The reality.”
Ivara shook her head immediately.
“No. That’s not true.”
But her voice—
was weaker now.
“You rewrote your life,” he said.
“You erased everything that broke you… and built this version instead.”
Her heartbeat grew louder.
Faster.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Then explain this,” he added.
He stepped closer.
And suddenly—
memories flooded in.
Not clear.
Not complete.
But enough.
Rain.
A fight.
A goodbye.
Her crying.
His voice—
“Don’t do this, Ivara…”
She gasped, stumbling back.
“No—”
Her head spun.
Her chest tightened.
“This isn’t real…”
“It is,” he said.
“You just chose not to remember it.”
Tears burned in her eyes.
“I didn’t forget anything!”
Her voice broke.
“I would remember something like that!”
A long silence followed.
And then—
the truth came.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
“You didn’t just forget the moment, Ivara,” he said quietly.
“You forgot me.”
Her heart dropped.
Completely.
Because this time—
it didn’t feel confusing.
It felt right.
Wrong—
but right.
Her lips parted slowly.
“…who are you?” she whispered.
He stepped even closer.
Close enough for her to feel his presence.
Close enough for her to almost see his face.
And then—
“I’m the one you chose to erase.”
Everything went silent.
No wind.
No sound.
Nothing.
Just that one sentence.
Echoing.
Breaking.
Rewriting everything she thought she knew.
And suddenly—
her perfect life didn’t feel like an achievement anymore.
It felt like an escape.
And maybe—
just maybe—
she had paid for it with something she didn’t even realize she lost.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD