The night the waitress leaned in and whispered, “That’s not his name,” my whole world snapped. One quiet sentence, and the man across from me became a stranger in an instant. I wanted to deny it, to cling to the fantasy I’d built around him, but the evidence kept coming—different stories, odd gaps, tiny inconsistencies that I had spent months gaslighting myself into ignoring, all suddenly converging into a singular, terrifying realization that I was sitting across from a ghost… Continue reading…
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