Estranged

They used to say, “You are so alike” or “You two are the same”. Their pretext for uttering such words was valid, but they often said these things because they believed saying them would incite change. We had wronged them—I had wronged them, and their anger was warranted. But their words and my so-called doppelgänger’s actions seeped into my lungs, their noxious fumes nearly choking me. Though once amorphous, these substances took shape, clawing at my ribs and crushing my chest, their appendages begging for release. My doppelgänger is merely a doppelgänger in the way we are perceived, in the way we act. I no longer act the way she does, because time has taught me to admit when I am wrong, to come to terms with who I am, to be grateful for what I have. I move my hand up to the crown of my head and run my fingers through my hair and the girl staring back at me would do the same; my doppelgänger, however, cannot act in unison with me. We do not share a face, or eyes, or a nose. We think differently—different beings inhabiting the same place but living in distinct worlds. The beast within my chest has grown weaker and more reticent, timid and tired, over the weeks and months. But the ache of longing remains. I used to understand my doppelgänger as well as I understand the young woman in the mirror who smiles upon remembering shared laughter or playful arguments about the disputable beauty of dandelions. But now, she is a stranger.