Syncope

The clinic looked like nothing. It had no windows, no signage, and no presence except the faint antiseptic tang that clung to your skin even after leaving. The walls inside glowed with a colorless intensity that didn’t register as light so much as pressure.

The receptionist recited the same line to every person who entered, a phrase delivered with such even cadence that you suspected it was timed, trained, or perhaps recorded. "Thank you for choosing recovery. Please sit until we call your name."

She never blinked. No one behind the desk ever did.

The procedure had a long, hyphenated name in dense clinical terminology, but everyone just called it The Split. It was advertised as a kind of permanent relief. They said your trauma would be safely extracted, sealed inside a synthetic double. This replica would absorb your memories, your pain, your worst days, and carry them so you wouldn’t have to. The double would live just long enough to contain the damage. Then it would be destroyed, ethically they assured you, and out of sight. You were given a pamphlet in a soft, dusty blue. The brochure promised peace the way a locked door promises safety.

You signed the waiver, let them take your blood, answered every question about the day your world cracked in half. You were told to think about it during the scan, to open your ribs and let the grief pour through. They said the process was smoother that way.

You obeyed.

You gave them everything. You remembered the way his voice changed when he got bored of you. You remembered the slammed door, the silence that followed, the apology that never came. When the scan ended, your hands were shaking. You couldn’t feel your feet.

They said the split was successful. You were told to go live your life.

And you did.

In the days that followed, you began to float. Your chest stopped buzzing. You passed old haunts and didn’t flinch. You opened apps without dread. You walked past the coffee shop that once made your breath catch and couldn’t remember why it had mattered. The weight had lifted, and in its place was a quiet, taut stillness.

You called it healing. You called it progress. You smiled at strangers and remembered how to laugh automatically.

Weeks later, the first ad surfaced. It barely registered.

In it, a billboard beside the freeway glowed faintly in the dawn fog. In swooping letters it read, “You Deserve Peace.”

You thought it was for a wellness retreat.

You let the moment pass. But then came the second ad. This one was personal. It flickered into place as you passed a bus stop on the way to work. The screen shifted; the font was the same, still soft, still blue. But now it read, “You deserve peace, [Your Name].”

You stopped walking as the text faded and a new ad loaded in its place, something about shoes. You didn’t wear that brand anymore, but your clone had worn them on the last day, and the memory rose with a clarity you couldn’t shake. You’d seen those same shoes reflected in a pane as they wheeled it down a hallway, and they were the pair you threw away after he left, after they returned from that trip. They’d smelled like mud, and you never asked why.

You told yourself it was a coincidence; a clever algorithm, nothing more. But that week, a child in line at the pharmacy called her doll by your old nickname you hadn’t heard in years. Only one person used to say it. You turned and saw her repeat it, lips curling in slow motion, eyes locked on yours.

The phone calls started the next day. They never showed up in your call log. The voice on the other end sounded like yours, but not quite. The tone was off. It was too slow and too breathy, like it had been recorded underwater. The voice whispered things only you could have known.

“Do you remember how cold it was?”

“Why didn’t you leave sooner?”

“Would you take him back if it was different?”

You never responded. Sometimes you hung up. Other times you listened.

You saw him on the street the following week. He looked older. He always looked older when he was losing.

The sleeves of his coat were worn thin, and he smiled like the distance between you had never existed. When he said your name, you felt nothing. It was like listening to someone read your medical file aloud. You watched his mouth move and wondered how it ever made you shiver.

He talked too long, as he always did. When he asked if you wanted to get coffee, you said no, and you walked away, unsure if your feet were yours.

That night, you dreamed of the clone. It was in a room you almost recognized. It felt like your childhood bedroom, but it was somehow wrong around the edges. The proportions were off. The windows were much too tall. And the shadows were somehow too slow.

It wore your favorite sweater, the one you stopped wearing when he said it made you look smaller. He was there too, sitting beside it, laughing. Not like he laughed with you, but real, belly-deep laughter. You didn’t recognize the sound. You woke with tears on your face.

The next morning, there was a voicemail. You didn’t remember the call. You pressed play.

Your voice came through the speaker. It felt clear, measured, and final. “I forgive you.”

You never said that.

The apartment began to shift, the light switches flicking in patterns you couldn’t decode as the bathroom mirror fogged without heat and shaped words in the condensation. Once it formed, “You’re the leftover.” Another time it shaped, “He remembers the clone more.”

At work, your emails began to erase themselves, the screen blinking away whatever you typed, and one draft even wrote itself, “you don’t feel it because it’s not yours anymore.” When you tried to show a coworker, the message vanished before their eyes. They laughed it off. You didn’t.

You went back to the clinic. The receptionist was still there. She was still perfect and still frozen. She asked your name. She didn’t remember you. You asked to see your clone. They told you it had been ethically dissolved. You asked what that meant. They smiled. You asked again. Louder this time. The technician handed you a brochure and a coupon for a massage.

You started seeing yourself around the city, in windows, in reflections, in the corner of your eye, always just ahead and always slipping from view. It wore your old jacket, turned its head too slowly, and moved with a walk that was far too smooth, and you began following it. You stopped speaking to your friends, and they said you looked radiant, said you must be thriving, and you smiled at them even though it felt like someone else’s mouth.

He called again. You answered. He said he missed you. He said he didn’t know what went wrong. You asked if he remembered what he did. He was quiet. You asked again. He said he didn’t want to fight. You said you weren’t fighting. You said you just wanted to know if he felt anything. He said you were different. You said, “I got better.” The line went dead.

A week later, you saw an article about a man who vanished. The article published no name and no picture. It stated he was last seen near a trauma recovery facility. You recognized the address.

You walked there and found the clinic gone, replaced by a park you didn’t recognize. You sat on a bench, unsure what you thought you’d see or why you expected anything at all. The air smelled like cedar, the same as the inside of his car, and you wondered why that detail reached you now and why it felt like the end.

Someone sat beside you. You didn’t look.

They said, “Do you feel lighter now?”

You said nothing.

They said, “He loved me, you know.”

You turned. The clone smiled. It was immaculate. It wore your sweater better than you ever did. It looked like the version of you that was still worthy of softness.

You asked, “Where is he?”

The clone tilted its head.

You asked again.

It said, “He didn’t make it.”

You asked what that meant.

It said, “He didn’t deserve to.”

You stood. You felt the wind press gently against your collar. You asked, “Are you still me?”

The clone didn’t answer. You didn’t need it to.

You walked away.

Your phone buzzed. An ad had loaded. “You’ve been improved. Don’t resist.”

You deleted it.

At the grocery store, the cashier asked if you found everything okay. You answered, and the sound was correct in every way except the part where it belonged to someone else.