I laid in the coffin. My braids wrapped tightly around my neck

I told them I first saw her at the campus library. Her long braids falling down her back. Just like mine. She wore the jacket I couldn’t afford last week. My jeans.

She grabbed the book I’d been searching for and headed straight for the door. I should’ve known she didn’t want me to notice her.

The intern at the front desk followed her with his eyes. She looked just like me. But better? Her hair, a touch shinier. Softer.

Then the café. The barista smiled and asked, “You finished your latte already?” I hadn’t had coffee yet. When I turned, I saw her, her braids dangling playfully off the back of the chair.

A guy from my class sat beside her. On her other side, my art history professor. They were all laughing. I’d never seen my professor laugh before.

I followed her. People from my class stopped to say hi. And others, faces I barely remembered, smiled at her like old friends. No one said hi to me.

I told them she came into my dreams. Wearing my little black dress. My mom and dad were there, dressed in black too. They laughed and whispered: “She was such a bad daughter,” “She was good at nothing,” “She embarrassed us.” And my doppelgänger smiled. Sipped from her wine. Me? I laid in the coffin. My braids wrapped tightly around my neck.

I told them she was at the gallery the next day, sitting on the floor in front of a Michelangelo sculpture. Her sketchbook, identical to mine. But her pencil strokes were more confident. Effortless. People passed behind her. Many stopped. Admiring. Watching her.

I told them she was copying everything I did, but better. I told them she was trying to take my life. To erase me.

But the police called her a “normal undergrad”. They said something about me remaining silent.

Liars.

She was me. They were just covering it up.