Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

Squish.

Squish.

Squish.

This creature, this shadow of a man in my apartment, is not my boyfriend. He is a deceiver, donning Memphis's skin and using his voice, striving to replicate every nuance of him, yet he always falls short of something. Tonight, it is cooking, and Memphis never cooks. I have come to this painful truth—a revelation that has arrived too late.

One may wonder why I cling to this madness, why I haven't admitted myself to a mental hospital. I'm struggling to comprehend, fighting against the whispers of my dark thoughts. Yet the chilling proof that surrounds me speaks of a reality too powerful to ignore, a truth that lingers like a specter in the recesses of my mind, urging me to face the darkness I both dread and desire.

There's something unsettling about the way his empty stare tracks my every move, the way his mouth twists into a frown before he struggles to form words, and how his daily habits have shifted so drastically that a chill creeps along my spine.

It is not him.

He exists merely as an empty shell, desperately attempting to craft an illusion of humanity, to mimic the essence of the person who once inhabited this form before he claimed it. Yet, to label him a mere shell would be a mistake. He—or it—displays cunning intelligence. It scavenges fragments from its surroundings, and perhaps it has absorbed knowledge from me and others, growing in ways no one can expect.

Maybe it even has its own personality, and maybe it can feel too.

The rhythmic sound of meat being chopped on the cutting board travels from the kitchen, through the hallways, reverberating into our bedroom. Chop. Chop. Chop. I lean against the door, straining to discern what he's preparing in the dead of night. My toes dig into the floor as I try to control my breathing.

I know one thing for certain: it's carnivorous. It desires flesh and blood. Meat.

A profound sense of fear chokes me. I struggle to understand its true nature, what it is, yet a chilling question remains—will he ever return? He was once the love of my life, and the one with whom I spent years. Now, some monster took away his very essence.

I believe Memphis perished the moment he vanished from one of our fights. He met his end long ago, and now I coexist with a being that has assumed his form.

I swallow hard, my fingers relaxing as the harsh clatter of the knife against the cutting board fades away, replaced by the echo of footsteps approaching. His shadow dances beneath the wooden frame, and my heart tightens, expecting the door to be flung open, bracing for the impact that never arrives.

His voice—flat, yet oddly soothing—drifts through the door. "Is something bothering you?" He hesitates for a moment before continuing, "Am I being too noisy?"

People would call me insane, but I dread the return of the real Memphis more. The resurgence of the man he once was, rather than the creature he has morphed into, even if that creature is some sort of parasitic monster.

I shake my head while stepping forward to open the door. "No. I was just coming out because I couldn't sleep. Do you need any help?"

This isn't as terrible as it may seem, how the unknown still frightens me so. But it pales in comparison to the torment of cohabiting with the real Memphis, the man I once loved.