Morning came far too quickly.

I woke up to the blaring sound of Blake’s alarm — some obnoxious rock song that nearly gave me a heart attack — and the sunlight stabbing through half-open blinds. For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of Blake’s room. It smelled faintly of soap, laundry detergent, and that weirdly expensive cologne boys use when they’re trying too hard to look effortless.

And then I remembered.

I wasn’t me. I was him.

“Right,” I muttered, ...