The Unreturned Suit (Theme: identity crisis)
The business card was a simple, matte black. Leo J. Mercer, Freelance Photographer. It had slipped from a man’s wallet at the coffee shop, right after that man—Leo—had confessed to Ethan over the counter about his own crushing envy of Ethan’s “ordered life.” Ethan, a senior accountant, was drowning in spreadsheets, deadlines, and a soul-crushing mortgage. Leo’s life sounded like a dream of unshackled freedom.
“Let’s trade,” Leo had joked, a wild glint in his eye. “Just for a day. You be me, I’ll be you. A reset.”
It was the most reckless thing Ethan had ever considered. And that’s how he found himself agreeing. For 24 hours, he would be Leo J. Mercer. He left his own wallet, phone, and tailored suit in a locker, taking only Leo’s camera bag and a sense of giddy liberation. He spent the day wandering the city, taking photos of pigeons and sunlight on puddles. It was terrifying and exhilarating.
But at 7:00 PM the next day, at the agreed-upon bench, Leo wasn’t there.
Ethan waited an hour, then two. A cold dread began to seep in. He used the last of his cash for a coffee, his mind racing. Had Leo been in an accident? Had he… changed his mind?
By midnight, desperation forced him to the one place he dreaded: his own apartment. He used his key, his heart hammering against his ribs. The lights were on. His wife, Sarah, looked up from the sofa, her face a mask of confusion. “Ethan? You said you were working late at the office.”
Behind her, a man stepped out of the kitchen—a man wearing Ethan’s favorite sweater, holding a glass of Ethan’s preferred whiskey. It was Leo. He looked… comfortable. Settled.
“Ah, you must be Leo,” the man said smoothly, his voice a perfect, calm mimicry of Ethan’s own. He slipped an arm around Sarah’s waist. “Sarah, this is the photographer I told you about, the one interested in corporate headshots.”
Ethan’s mouth fell open. “What are you doing? Sarah, it’s me! Ethan!”
Sarah’s face tightened with pity and alarm. “Leo, please. This isn’t funny.”
“I think you should leave,” the impostor—Ethan—said, his tone firm, paternal. “You’re clearly distressed. The project is over.”
He was being evicted from his own life by a more competent version of himself. The man had not just taken his identity; he had improved upon it. He looked more relaxed, sounded more authoritative. He fit the contours of Ethan’s life better than Ethan ever had.
Stumbling back into the hallway, the door clicking shut with finality, Ethan fumbled for Leo’s wallet. He stared at the driver’s license. Leo J. Mercer. The face in the photo, his face now, seemed to mock him. He had no keys, no proof, no life to return to. He had borrowed an identity to escape his stress, and in return, his own existence had been permanently repossessed. He was now a ghost, a man in a photograph, with no one left to develop the negative.
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