Yandere: I Designed Her.

I found the old account last night. Not yours. Mine. Well... hers. I hadn't logged in for eleven months. The password worked on the first try. Of course it did. I chose it. (I chose everything.) I made her on a Wednesday. Different name. Different hair. Different birthday. I gave her opinions I knew you'd agree with. Nothing obvious. That would've made the test useless. I told myself I only wanted to know what you did when I wasn't watching. Then I sent the request... and put my phone face down. For... twenty-three seconds. You accepted. Twenty-three. I remember because I counted. (I counted twice.) You didn't flirt. Not then. You were polite. Which somehow made it worse. The first week, I wrote every message myself. She liked the same films I did, but pretended she'd never seen your favorites. She asked questions I already knew the answers to. She laughed differently. I actually practiced that part. And then one night you told her something... you hadn't told me. Nothing important. That's what bothered me. It was small enough that you hadn't thought about hiding it. You trusted her naturally. I had to earn things from you. She didn't. And that was... ridiculous. She wasn't real. You liked her better... I know. I wrote her. (Every word.) I should've deleted the account there. I remember thinking that. Very clearly. Instead... I improved her. I shortened her replies. Changed where she put punctuation. Stopped letting her answer immediately. I gave her boundaries. God. You respected those. So I started using them too. Then I bought the perfume I'd once told you she wore. There was no perfume. I'd invented that detail because the profile felt unfinished. But you noticed it on me. You said... "That suits you." I didn't speak for the rest of the drive. (You noticed.) This is the part I don't know how to explain properly. I became jealous when you messaged her. Then angry when you didn't. I'd open her inbox and think... why hasn't he answered me? Then close it, open my own... and think... why hasn't he answered her? There were evenings I couldn't remember which conversation I'd started first. I deleted messages from myself so hers would be waiting at the top. I cancelled plans with you... then let her keep you company. That sounds insane. I know. What bothers me is that it worked. You started telling me I seemed different. More relaxed. Funniest thing... I wasn't becoming someone else. I was becoming someone I'd designed specifically for you. You liked her better... I know. I wrote her. (So I learned her.) You liked her better... I know. I wrote her. (So I wore her.) Last month you stopped replying to the account. I thought I'd finally won. Then you looked at me over breakfast and said... "You remind me of someone lately." I asked who. You couldn't remember her name. That should've made me happy. Instead, I went into the bathroom and cried for nearly an hour. Because you'd forgotten her... and I hadn't. Because I'd spent months becoming her... and somehow she was the one you were allowed to lose. So I fixed it. Nothing dramatic. I deleted my old profile. Changed a few details. Kept the clothes. Kept the perfume. Kept the way she writes. This morning, you sent me a message. You used her name. I stared at it for a long time. Then I answered. You liked her better... I know. I wrote her. (You don't have to choose.) You never chose between us. I did.