Everyone Says I’m Emily. I’m Not.

I opened my eyes to a stranger calling me by the wrong name — and the terrifying part? Everyone believed her.

“Emily, finally. You’re awake.”
The woman beside my bed smiled as if she'd known me her whole life. Her hand gently brushed my hair. I flinched.

My name isn’t Emily.

I sat up fast, breath shallow. The room was bright and luxurious — golden drapes, velvet armchair, a glowing chandelier. Nothing like the cluttered one-bedroom apartment I remembered falling asleep in.

I looked down at my hands. Slim, smooth, polished nails. Not mine.

I tried to speak, but my voice came out hoarse. “Where... where am I?”
You don’t remember yet. That’s okay. We’ll get through this together.”

I pulled my hand back. “No. Listen to me. I’m not her. My name is Sara. I live in Brooklyn. I don’t know you. Any of you.”

The woman exchanged a glance with him. Then she smiled like I was a confused child. “Memory loss is common with trauma. You need rest.”


---

They gave me clothes that weren’t mine — a soft white dress and designer slippers. The mirror in the bathroom nearly made me scream. The woman in the reflection looked like me... but not. Her hair was neater, her skin flawless, her eyes somehow sharper.

But it wasn’t just my appearance. It was everything. The photos on the walls showed “Emily” with Liam — wedding photos, vacations, smiling selfies. She lived in a world I had never been part of.

Yet I was trapped in it.


---

I waited until the house was quiet. My phone — well, “Emily’s” phone — was unlocked with face ID. I dug through the messages.

Nothing from my friends. No texts from my boss at the art studio. Just messages from people I didn’t know — congratulating her on recovery, asking how “Liam” was holding up.

I typed my own name into Google. Sara Delaney.

Nothing. No social profiles, no records, not even a birth certificate.

It was like I’d never existed.


---

I went to the backyard — beautiful and vast, with trimmed hedges and marble fountains. I kept walking, heart racing, until I reached the edge of the property and found a gate. It was locked. I looked up — there were security cameras mounted on every corner.

I was trapped in a paradise I couldn’t escape.


---

The next morning, I demanded answers. Liam sat me down with a gentle tone but firm eyes. “Emily, we’ve gone through this. You were in a car accident. Severe head trauma. You forget things sometimes. But you’re safe. I’m here.”

He held up a video on his phone. A recording of “me” — Emily — laughing, dancing, kissing him.

It looked like me. But it wasn’t me.

“Do you remember this?” he asked.

I shook my head slowly. “That’s not me. I don’t know how you did this. But it’s not.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes, quickly masked by another smile. “That’s okay. In time, you will.”


---

Later that night, I found a journal hidden behind the books in the study. Inside, a single sentence was written over and over:

“If you’re reading this, you’re not crazy. You’re not Emily either.”


---

To be continued...