The Truth
My throat was dry as I stared at the photo from the freezer. It wasn’t possible. I hadn’t been to the bridge last night; I had been home. I remembered being at home.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a voice message. I pressed play. The deep, calm voice from before filled my ears: “You’re forgetting, Aisha. Just like you forgot that night. But I remember everything.”
There was a pause, followed by the faint sound of water splashing in the background. “You pushed him. You watched him fall. You smiled.”
“No,” I whispered. “That’s not true. I tried to help—” My voice broke. The memory from three years ago began to shift and warp. The man hadn’t stumbled; I had grabbed him. And last night… last night, I had been at the bridge, my bare feet on the cold concrete, my hands shoving another figure into the water.
My stomach turned. The truth hit me like a wave: I wasn’t the victim.
The phone buzzed one last time with a text: “Check the mirror.”
I turned. In the mirror across the room, my reflection was smiling, but I wasn’t.
