I didn’t sleep. Again.

The Alex thing, it crawled under my skin, made me restless, like if I don't get him, he'd come for me.

How was I even supposed to sleep, when there’s a possibility he could be out there and could launch an attack on me at any time…

It wasn’t just the resemblance anymore. It was my own fear, the fear of being attacked.

No one could ever forgive what I had done, and the fact that he’s here only proves it. The fact he’d go through all this length just to get his revenge on me, justifies my fear.

The perfection of his new fake life and identity. It’s just too clean. Too curated. Too convenient.

A new apartment. A vague job. A grocery store routine. A coffee order.

It’s like someone had pressed “generate civilian identity” on a dark web form and printed out a human, a human that looked exactly like my dead husband, so excuse me if the only assumption I’m making is that he’s Mark, and he’s here to get me.

I knew the signs. I’d faked identities myself, twice to be precise. Once to vanish. Once to survive. I knew how to make it look real.

But the problem with making something look real… is that it never actually feels real.

Alex felt like a fiction.

By the third night, I had a routine, hair tucked into a tight blonde wig, thrifted coat, oversized sunglasses that made me look like an off-duty celebrity or an absolute lunatic.

I followed him three blocks behind, far enough not to draw attention, close enough not to lose him.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

He was just leaving a normal and carefree life, like his whole appearance hasn't just turned my world around. He bought groceries. Walked to the gym. Came back. Cooked dinner. Watched old movies, always old movies, like he was from a different time entirely.

No drugs. No weapons. No strange visitors, I half expected his sister to show up, you know, at least communicate with his family that he’s alive. But nothing of that sort.

Except from when he had gone on a date with some girl, she wasn't even Mark’s type, and from where I was seated, I could tell the so-called Alex wasn’t enjoying her company either, I could sense his frustration building up.

Her laughter irritated him. And that again justifies my theory. How else would I have known his type if he wasn’t Mark pretending to be Alex..

I think it’s high time I clear all of this up, with proof that is more than a photograph.

Certainly he’d be gone for at least another hour, it is time to pay his little apartment a visit…

***************

I glanced left, and right before sneaking into the apartment, luckily there weren't any nosy neighbors lurking around, it was quiet, and I wondered if he even had any neighbors.

Slipping into the hall, I crept up the stairs like a shadow, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

It was Apartment 2 B. Turning the door knob, it didn't budge. I examined the lock, it was cheap. I’d picked tougher ones in worse cases.

Seconds later, I heard the click sound.

Opening the door, I let myself into the apartment.

The place was clean. Sparse. No clutter. No photos. No personal touches. Nothing that screamed Mark, nothing entailing Alex either.

Just normal.

I searched every inch of the apartment, drawers, closets, fridge, shower, and bedside table.

Nothing.

No pictures, no ID, no receipt, no hint of the man I knew, or well thought I knew.

The only significant detail was the closet full of adult toys. Mark loved sex, but he wasn’t kinky.

So it's either within the few months of his supposed death, he had grown a new fantasy, or I’m just crazy.

I don’t want to jump to any conclusion, hence my reason for paying a visit to his apartment, to get more evidence that he is Mark.

But this only complicates things.

I sat on the bed, running my hands through my hair in frustration.

The only evidence I have right now is the fact that he looks exactly like Mark, and that’s not enough.

What if he isn’t Mark and this is all a huge misunderstanding, and I end up killing someone innocent?

Everyone have ever killed, deserved it, and I don’t regret my actions, but killing someone innocent is certainly not my thing.

At this point, I think I’m on the verge of going crazy.

Is he Mark, or isn’t he Mark?

This goddamn apartment isn’t even helping out, no receipt, no phone book, nothing.

Even his closet was neutral, gray shirts, black jeans, and pants, and one battered leather jacket.

Mark always wore navy, and I had mocked him on several occasions.

I held my head with both my hands unsure of what to do.

Then I heard it, a soft click of the lock at the front door.

My heart stopped.

“What do I do?”

The only entrance out here is through the room window.

I bolted in the direction of the window, but it was too late, I heard his footsteps approaching the bedroom door.

Without even thinking, I ducked under the bed, holding my breath, hoping he wouldn’t sense my presence.

He walked into the room, his footsteps approaching the bed. He stopped just right at the front of the bed and stood there for what looked like forever.

Even with how chilly it was tonight, my clothes were soaked with sweat, and I could barely breathe.

He moved through the apartment like he knew someone had been there. He walked up to the drawer and stood there for another minute.

“What the fuck is he doing?” I thought.

Seconds felt like hours.

I remained there, not daring to move an inch.

After spending what looked like forever in front of the drawer, doing God knows what, he walked up to the window, then turned around and left the room, locking the door behind him.

After making sure I couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, I got out, heaving a sigh of relief.

I bolted to the window as earlier planned, then I saw it.

What he had actually come to the window to do.

There was a piece of paper glued to the window, which couldn’t be missed.

There was a write-up boldly written on it.

“Next time, KNOCK!!!”

I glanced at the paper, conflicted if to acknowledge the fact I was there by taking it, or just ignore it.

Either way, it makes no difference, he knew I was there, and he probably knew why I was there.

Without hesitation, I slipped through the window pulling the sign along with me.

I scoffed, glancing at the paper again as my leg safely hit the ground.

“‘Next time, Knock?’ He’s got to be kidding me!!!”

I looked up to his window and saw his reflection staring down at me.