I Stole My Friend’s Life

The first time I plagiarized Lila, it was accidental.

We were 19, sharing lukewarm chai in her dorm room—walls plastered with her ink sketches of twisted trees and sharp-toothed birds. I read her poetry journal while she showered (*“the sky tonight is a bruise / tender and violet where god pressed too hard”*), and those lines slipped into my psych essay like they’d always lived there.

Professor Evans circled the stanza in red: *“This is extraordinary. Have you considered writing professionally?”*

I didn’t lie. Not exactly.

I just let the silence hang.

---

Lila was all edges—dyed-black hair shaved at one temple, silver rings on every finger, laughter like shattered glass. I was beige wallpaper. Quiet. Forgettable. But when I handed her my coffee order at the campus shop where I worked, she’d wink: *“Double espresso, no sugar. Just like your soul, Clara.”*

I started collecting her fragments:

- The way she called loneliness *“the hollow at the base of the throat.”*

- Her habit of sketching strangers’ hands on napkins.

- The fact she’d never eaten a strawberry (*“texture’s all wrong, like biting into a heart”*).

I wore them like armor.

---

The theft became methodical:

1. **Her style:** Bought combat boots, thrifted a leather jacket smelling of smoke.

2. **Her voice:** Quoted her rants about capitalism as my own at parties.

3. **Her art:** Submitted her charcoal sketch of a wilted rose to *The Quarterly Review*. They published it under *my* name.

*“Clara Voss is a revelation,”* the email read. *“Raw. Unflinching.”*

Lila stared at the magazine in our shared kitchen, tracing her own signature—cropped from the scan. *“Funny,”* she murmured. *“This looks like something I’d draw.”*

I dropped a mug. Shards glittered like teeth on linoleum.

*“Sorry,”* I breathed. *“I’m so clumsy.”*

She didn’t know that was stolen too—her apology habit.

---

Then came Mateo.

Lila met him at a gallery opening (*“He smells like turpentine and poor decisions,”* she sighed). I watched them through café windows—his thumb brushing her wrist, her head thrown back mid-laugh—and felt something crack open in my chest. A hunger.

I replicated their first date:

- **The restaurant:** Osteria Luna, table by the dripping candles.

- **The order:** Squid ink pasta, Sangiovese.

- **The question:** *“What’s your earliest memory of wanting to disappear?”*

When Mateo paused, fork hovering, I knew I’d nailed her rhythm. The lilt. The dare in it.

*“A swing set,”* he said slowly. *“Age four. I let go mid-air.”*

Later, against his apartment door, he bit my earlobe: *“You’re nothing like Lila said.”*

*“Oh?”*

*“She called you… careful.”* His laugh was low. *“But you’re a fucking knife.”*

I wore her leather jacket home.

---

Lila found out on a Tuesday.

Rain lashed the windows as she slapped *The Quarterly Review* onto my desk—open to *her* rose sketch with *my* byline. Beneath it lay screenshots:

- My Tinder profile using her photos (filtered, cropped tight).

- Mateo’s texts to her: *“Clara’s into all your weird shit. Even that band you love. Creepy, right?”*

She didn’t shout. Just stood there, drenched from her bike ride, smelling of wet pavement and betrayal. *“Why?”*

The truth was a live wire:

*Because your life fits better than mine ever did.*

*Because when I’m you, I matter.*

What I said: *“I just wanted to see what it felt like.”*

She left without taking her jacket.

---

**Three years later:**

- Lila’s in Berlin, showing her *“Wilted”* series at a gallery that bans my emails.

- Mateo runs a tattoo parlor in Austin. He blocked me after I sent a poem titled *“Swing Set.”*

- I write copy for probiotic yogurt ads. *“Gut health is self-care!”*

Sometimes, I wear the jacket and whisper Lila’s old lines into my bathroom mirror:

*“The hollow at the base of the throat / where the words went to die.”*

The reflection never answers.

I am still beige wallpaper.

But now, there are claw marks where I tried to tear my way out.