The Self She Left Behind

The moment the subway doors slid shut, Ginelle felt it.

That cold, sickening certainty that something was missing.

She reached into her coat pockets — phone, keys, wallet. Good. But her hands kept moving, searching. Her pulse ticked up. She checked her tote bag — book, notebook, water bottle, makeup pouch. All there.

And yet, something wasn’t.

The train lurched forward, pulling her deeper into the city’s underground veins, away from whatever she had left behind. The sensation gnawed at her, clawing its way up from her gut to the base of her skull.

She took a breath. She had just come from Café Willow, where she’d spent an hour nursing a cappuccino and jotting down ideas in her notebook. Had she forgotten something there? Maybe her gloves? No, she hadn’t even worn gloves today.

She forced herself to think logically.

What had she touched before leaving? The mug, the spoon, the pages of her notebook, the zipper of her bag… but none of that felt like the thing. The thing she had lost.

She frowned. Why was she thinking of it as the thing? If she couldn’t even name it, was it really lost?

The subway rattled on. She leaned back against the cold metal bar, letting her head rest for a moment. It was probably just anxiety. That ever-present feeling of having forgotten something, of never quite being fully prepared for life.

Still, she would stop at the next station and take the train back. Just to be sure.

The Return

Café Willow was quieter when she returned. A few people sat tucked into corners, bathed in the golden glow of hanging lights. The barista, a round-faced guy with a tired smile, glanced up as she walked in.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

“I think I left something.”

“What was it?”

Ginelle hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

The barista gave her a puzzled look but gestured toward the small lost-and-found box behind the counter. “You can check here.”

She rifled through it. A few mismatched gloves. A scarf. A notebook — someone else’s.

Nothing of hers. Nothing that called to her.

“You sure you lost something here?” the barista asked.

No. She wasn’t sure at all.

Ginelle nodded anyway. “Yeah. Never mind.”

She turned to leave, but her steps felt heavier now. The feeling wasn’t fading. If anything, it was growing stronger.

Something was missing.

Something she had left behind.

But it wasn’t here.

Echoes of Absence

The walk home felt longer than usual. Her apartment was only a few blocks away, but the streets stretched unnaturally in the dim glow of streetlights, like the city had warped in some imperceptible way.

She tried to shake the feeling, focusing on the familiar. The bookstore she loved, its windows lined with secondhand novels. The florist’s stall at the corner, selling late-season tulips. The rusted green mailbox she had never once used but always noticed.

All still here. But something wasn’t.

When she reached her apartment, she hesitated before unlocking the door. A deep unease slithered through her bones.

What if she stepped inside and realized what was missing?

What if she didn’t?

The door creaked open.

Her apartment was the same as she had left it. The coat draped over the armchair. The half-full mug of tea on the counter. The unread book on the coffee table.

And yet, it wasn’t.

She felt it in the air, in the spaces between things.

A lack. A void.

Something had been here that wasn’t anymore.

She walked through the rooms slowly, scanning, searching. Her bookshelf, her kitchen, her desk — every object was in its place.

Her bed.

She stopped.

The bed looked untouched. Not in the sense that it was made, but in the sense that no one had ever slept in it. The indentation of her body, the slight rumple of the sheets — gone.

It was pristine.

Like she had never laid there at all.

A chill ran through her. She touched the blankets, the pillow. They felt unfamiliar under her hands.

Had she slept here last night?

Had she ever?

Ginelle stumbled back, her breath quickening. No, that was ridiculous. She lived here. She had to have slept here.

She checked her phone, scrolling frantically through messages, photos, anything that would tether her to something real.

Then she saw it.

Or rather, she didn’t.

There were no photos of her bed. No lazy Sunday mornings, no snapshots of a book resting on the pillows. Nothing.

She checked further.

No pictures of her apartment at all.

Her heart pounded.

Had she ever taken any? She must have. Right?

A ringing filled her ears, a deep and hollow sound, like a bell tolling underwater.

Her breathing hitched.

Something was missing.

And maybe — just maybe — it was her.

The Hollow Memory

She sat on the edge of the untouched bed, gripping her phone. The absence pressed in on her, thick and suffocating.

She forced herself to think.

If something about her reality had shifted, when had it happened?

The feeling had started on the train. Right after she left Café Willow.

She opened her gallery again, scrolling back to earlier today.

There was a photo of her cappuccino.

Her notebook.

And another one.

A selfie.

Her, sitting by the window, smiling faintly. But there was something off about it.

The reflection.

In the window, there was no one sitting there.

Ginelle stomach turned.

She took a shaky breath, staring at the image.

She had been there. She had to have been there.

Hadn’t she?

The feeling of loss swelled inside her, a vast and aching emptiness. Not just something left behind. Something taken.

She gripped the bedsheets, trying to ground herself. But they still didn’t feel like hers.

The absence was swallowing her whole.

And she had the terrible, gut-wrenching certainty that whatever she had left behind — whoever she had left behind—

Had been herself.

The Search for Herself

Ginelle sat frozen on the bed, staring at the reflection in her phone screen. Her breathing was shallow, her thoughts spinning too fast to catch.

She had to do something.

Sitting here wouldn’t fix this — wouldn’t bring her back.

If something had taken her, if something had pulled her out of sync with her own life, then she needed to retrace her steps.

Find the missing piece.

Find herself.

Back to Where It Began

The subway station was nearly empty when she returned. The air felt thicker, the underground tunnels more cavernous. The dull hum of distant trains vibrated in her bones.

Ginelle hesitated at the platform’s edge, staring at the spot where she had stood before.

Had she left herself here?

The thought made her stomach twist.

She stepped back, scanning the tiled walls, the flickering overhead lights. No clues. No sign of… whatever had happened.

But something in her gut told her to wait.

She stood there as trains came and went, commuters passing by in a blur of sound and motion. The minutes stretched.

Then, a whisper.

Not a sound exactly, but a feeling — a tug in her chest, an almost memory slipping through her fingers.

Ginelle turned sharply.

A figure stood at the far end of the platform.

She hadn’t seen them arrive.

Hadn’t heard their steps.

The figure was still, watching her.

Ginelle's breath caught. Something about them…

The tilt of their head. The way their hands curled at their sides.

It was familiar.

Too familiar.

Ginelle took a step forward. The figure mirrored her.

No.

Not mirrored.

Reflected.

Her pulse pounded as she realized—

It was her.

But not quite.

The other Ginelle's eyes were hollow, empty like a long-forgotten photograph. Her skin was just a little too pale, her movements just a little too slow.

Ginelle's throat went dry. “Who are you?” she whispered.

The other Ginelle tilted her head. A faint, almost-smile touched her lips.

“You left me behind.”

The words sent a chill through Ginelle's bones.

No. That wasn’t possible.

She was here. She was real.

Wasn’t she?

Her mind reeled, scrambling for logic. “I didn’t leave anything,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The other Ginelle took a step closer.

“You don’t remember.”

Ginelle's pulse roared in her ears. She tried to step back, but her feet wouldn’t move.

The other Ginelle leaned in, her voice barely a whisper.

“You forgot me.”

Fragments of the Forgotten

Memories cracked open in her mind — flashes of things she didn’t recognize and yet knew.

Waking up in a different apartment.

Drinking coffee in a café she had never been to.

Smiling at strangers who knew her name.

A life that wasn’t this one.

A life that had been left behind.

Ginelle staggered back, the subway station spinning around her.

This wasn’t real.

Or rather — this wasn’t hers.

The other Ginelle watched her, waiting.

Ginelle forced herself to breathe. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely steady.

The other Ginelle's gaze darkened. “You chose to leave.”

Ginelle's stomach turned. “Why?”

A pause.

Then—

“Because this life was never yours.”

The Rift Between Lives

The words settled in her bones, cold and unshakable.

Ginelle wanted to argue. To deny it.

But deep down, she knew.

This unease. This hollowness.

This life — it had always felt just a little off, hadn’t it?

She had tried to ignore it. Tried to fit into the spaces that didn’t quite belong to her.

But now, standing here, staring at the version of herself she had left behind…

She couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Ginelle swallowed hard. “What do I do?”

The other Ginelle's expression softened — just a little.

“You already know.”

Ginelle closed her eyes.

She did.

She had to choose.

One life or the other.

Stay here — this version, this reality, this path she had taken.

Or step back.

Reclaim herself.

The Choice

Ginelle took a deep breath.

When she opened her eyes, she reached out.

The other Ginelle took her hand.

The world shuddered.

The station blurred — light and shadow twisting, unraveling.

And then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Breath.

Home.

Ginelle woke to the sound of rain.

Soft, steady, real.

She was in bed — her bed.

The sheets were warm, wrinkled from sleep.

She exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest.

She was whole.

She was here.

And for the first time in a long time, she knew—

She had never left herself behind.