Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 2: The First Doubt
Three days in, and I’m convinced I’m losing my mind.
Little things keep happening.
Wrong things.
Ethan forgets our Friday date night tradition.
Uses my full name instead of “Sloane-bug”—his nickname for me since we started dating.
Orders his coffee black when he always takes it with cream and sugar.
“Since when do you drink it black?” I ask over breakfast.
He looks confused.
“I’ve always drunk it black.”
“No, you haven’t. You literally complained last month that the coffee shop ran out of cream.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Must’ve been trying something new. Guess I forgot.”
He goes back to scrolling his phone.
I stare at my own coffee.
Feeling insane.
At work, I can’t concentrate.
I’m supposed to be finalizing the Henderson designs, but all I can think about is Ethan.
My coworker Dakota stops by my desk.
“You okay? You look stressed.”
“Just… home stuff.”
“The twin visit?”
I’d mentioned Everett moving in. Office small talk.
“Yeah. It’s fine. Just weird having someone else in the house.”
“I bet. Especially an identical twin. That would freak me out.”
“Why?”
She laughs.
“I don’t know. Just the idea that there’s someone who looks exactly like your husband walking around. Creepy.”
Creepy.
That’s the word.
Exactly what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t name.
Creepy.
That night, I test him.
We’re watching TV. I casually mention our first date.
“Remember that restaurant? The one with the terrible wine but amazing pasta?”
“Sure,” Ethan says, eyes still on the TV.
“What was it called again?”
“Uh… Marcello’s?”
Wrong.
It was Antonio’s.
Marcello’s was the place we went for our six-month anniversary.
Two totally different restaurants.
“Yeah, Marcello’s,” I say, testing further. “With the blue tablecloths.”
“Right. Blue.”
They were white.
My heart starts racing.
“And the waiter who spilled water on you.”
“God, yeah. That guy.”
There was no waiter. No spilled water.
I’m making this up and he’s agreeing with all of it.
“Ethan.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s not what happened. Our first date was at Antonio’s. White tablecloths. No water spill. Are you even listening to me?”
He looks over. Genuinely confused.
“Sorry. Work’s been crazy. I’m distracted.”
“You don’t even remember our first date?”
“Of course I do. I just… got the details mixed up. It was three years ago, Sloane.”
“You proposed using details from that night. You remembered every second of it. How do you suddenly forget?”
“I don’t know! Maybe I’m stressed? Why are you interrogating me?”
I stand up.
“I’m not interrogating. I’m trying to figure out why my husband suddenly can’t remember basic things about our relationship.”
“One restaurant name—”
“It’s not just that. It’s everything. The coffee. The nickname. The way you’ve been acting.”
“How have I been acting?”
“Different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just… different. Wrong.”
He stands too.
“Sloane, you’re being paranoid.”
There it is.
Paranoid.
The word that cuts deepest.
Because of my mom.
Because of the schizophrenia that ran in her family.
Because I’ve spent my whole life terrified of not being able to trust my own mind.
“I’m not paranoid,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
I go upstairs.
Lock myself in the bathroom.
Cry silently into a towel.
Later that night, Ethan apologizes.
“I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“Work’s been insane. I’m exhausted. I’m forgetting things. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Okay.”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
He kisses me.
And I want to believe him.
Want to think I’m overreacting.
But when he kisses me, I’m already checking.
Mentally cataloging.
Cedar cologne. Check.
Soft kiss, familiar rhythm. Check.
His hands on my waist, thumbs brushing my hip bones like always. Check.
This is Ethan.
It has to be.
That night, we make love.
It’s good. Normal.
But halfway through, I freeze.
“Wait.”
Ethan stops. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just… can I see your ribs?”
“What?”
“Your tattoo. I want to see it.”
“Sloane—”
“Please.”
He sighs. Rolls onto his back.
I turn on the bedside lamp.
There.
Left ribs.
The small black compass rose he got in college.
I trace it with my finger.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Sorry. I just needed to…”
“To make sure I’m me?”
I don’t answer.
He pulls me down. Kisses me.
“I’m me, Sloane. I promise. I’m your husband. No one else.”
“I know.”
We finish.
Afterwards, he falls asleep almost immediately.
I lie there.
Staring at the ceiling.
Listening to him breathe.
The tattoo was there.
So it’s definitely Ethan.
But then why does everything still feel wrong?
At 3 AM, I wake up thirsty.
Ethan’s asleep next to me.
I slip out of bed quietly.
Head downstairs for water.
The house is dark. Silent.
I’m filling a glass when I hear it.
Voices.
Male voices.
Coming from the hallway.
I freeze.
“—have to be more careful,” one voice says.
“She’s not going to figure it out,” another responds.
“She already suspects—”
“She suspects nothing. She’s just paranoid. Like you said.”
I creep toward the hallway.
Peek around the corner.
Everett.
Standing in the dark.
Alone.
Talking on his phone.
“—just a few more weeks. Then she won’t know the difference.”
My blood runs cold.
He’s quiet for a moment. Listening to whoever’s on the other end.
Then: “Trust me. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
He hangs up.
Turns.
Sees me.
“Sloane. Didn’t hear you come down.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“A buddy from my unit. Time zones, you know. It’s afternoon where he is.”
“What did you mean ‘she won’t know the difference’?”
He smiles.
That cold smile.
“I was talking about my mom. She keeps mixing me and Ethan up on video calls. Thinks I’m him, he’s me. It’s annoying.”
“Oh.”
“Bad dream?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Just thirsty.”
“Me too.”
He moves past me into the kitchen.
Too close.
His shoulder brushes mine.
I smell his cologne.
That dark, woodsy scent.
Different from Ethan’s.
He fills a glass.
Drinks.
Watches me over the rim.
“You should get back to bed,” he says. “Ethan probably misses you.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I turn to go.
“Sloane?”
I stop.
“Bad dreams can feel real sometimes. But they’re just dreams. Remember that.”
I don’t respond.
Just hurry back upstairs.
Back to the bedroom.
Ethan’s still asleep.
I climb into bed.
Pull the covers up.
Lie there shaking.
Bad dreams can feel real sometimes.
Was that a threat?
Or am I actually going crazy?
The next morning, Ethan notices I’m quiet.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
“Bad sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too, actually. Kept having weird dreams.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Can’t remember. Just felt… off.”
Off.
That word again.
I look at him.
Really look.
“Ethan, have you and Everett ever switched places? As adults, I mean?”
He laughs.
“What? No. Why would we?”
“I don’t know. You said you used to do it all the time.”
“In high school. For pranks. Not as adults. That would be weird.”
“Would it?”
“Yes. What’s this about?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
But I’m not curious.
I’m terrified.
Because last night, Everett said something on the phone.
“She won’t know the difference.”
And I’m starting to think he wasn’t talking about his mother.
He was talking about me.
END OF CHAPTER 2
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