There’s a copycat in my dorm. If I wear purple, she wears purple. If I wear green, she wears green. She even bought the exact same backpack as me. I finally snapped and had a huge fight with her about it. The next day, I was scrolling online and saw this post: [I’d walk through a wall for a straight girl, and she calls me a clone sheep.] Looking at the post’s author, located only 10 feet away from me, I started to reconsider everything. 1 Something is wrong with my roommate. Very wrong. She’s always wearing the same clothes as me, buying the same bags, and just a minute ago, she asked for the link to the socks I was wearing. This is not normal. Once is a coincidence. Twice is an accident. Three times is fate. But what about the fourth time? The fifth? The one hundred and eleventh? Worst of all, people have started mixing us up. My best friend, Maya, slung an arm around my shoulders, her face twisted in confusion. “You two are starting to look way too similar.” I couldn’t blame her. This was the eighth time she’d mistaken Clara for me from behind. I stared at the back of my roommate’s head, a figure that looked like it could be my twin. A wild thought sparked in my mind. Could it be… she wants to replace me? 2 The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Years of reading horror novels had prepared me for this. This was the classic setup for a story where someone slowly, methodically takes over another person’s life. I shuddered and immediately ran to Maya’s room to borrow a few outfits in completely different styles. Clara’s wardrobe was a near-perfect replica of mine; there was no way she could find a matching outfit in a single day. I snuck the borrowed clothes back into my closet when she wasn't looking. Phase one of Operation: Avoid Replacement—a complete style overhaul. The next morning, I pulled out a purple dress I’d borrowed from Maya. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clara staring at it. After a long moment, she stammered, “You… you changed your style.” I gave her a noncommittal nod, my guard raised. I’d never noticed it before, but now I realized her eyes were always glued to my clothes whenever I was picking out an outfit. Creepy. Terrifying. I climbed onto my loft bed to change. When I came back down, I was struck dumb. I was wearing a long, dark purple dress speckled with glitter. Clara was now dressed in the exact same color, only in a top and jeans. “What a coincidence…” she said, her expression a poorly rehearsed imitation of surprise. “We’re wearing the same color scheme again.” So fake. If our other roommate hadn’t been there, I would have thrown my backpack at her head. “Wow, you guys look so coordinated!” our other roommate commented from her desk, where she was doing her makeup. I watched, bewildered, as a faint blush crept up Clara’s neck. She’s guilty! That has to be it! 3 The next day, determined to break the pattern, I borrowed a green sundress from Maya. I’d never seen Clara wear anything like it. She definitely wouldn’t have anything to match this. When I got down from my bed, I saw she was still in her pajamas. A smug grin spread across my face. Ha! Stumped you, didn’t I? But as I was brushing my teeth, I watched her in the mirror. She opened a storage bin she kept under her bed, one she rarely touched, and pulled out… a green dress. A green… dress. I nearly crushed the plastic cup in my hand. She held up the dress, and catching my eye in the mirror, she gave me a faint, knowing smile. What was that smile? Evil! A challenge! A threat! She was about to take over my life! I couldn't let that happen! 4 I couldn't figure out how she managed to perfectly coordinate with me every single time. Who wants to be constantly mimicked? Not me. I hate copycats. It was time for the final move. Operation: Avoid Replacement—address the problem at its source. The one hundred and eighth time she asked me where I bought my socks, I slammed my phone down on my desk. “Why do you keep asking? What’s next, you want to know where I buy my underwear?” Her face flushed a deep red. “W-well… if you don’t mind…” she mumbled, peeking at me from under her eyelashes. That was it. That was the look of someone testing the waters, plotting her takeover. I could almost hear her next question: Can I peel your skin off and wear it as a mask? “Of course I mind!” I exploded, all my pent-up frustration finally erupting. “What is wrong with you? Don’t you have your own sense of style? Why do you have to wear everything I wear? Why do you copy me from head to toe? Are you a copycat? Do you know Dolly the clone sheep only lived for six years? Let me make this crystal clear: I don’t want to match with you anymore. If I see you wearing the same thing as me one more time, I’m throwing all your clothes out the window!” I punctuated my tirade by kicking a chair. Then I snatched my phone off the desk and stormed out, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t want to see her reaction. I didn’t care. 5 When I returned to the room later, I noticed she had changed into a completely different color. As soon as she saw me, my phone buzzed with a message from her. [I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I didn’t know you disliked it.] The message hit me with the force of a tidal wave of guilt. She was right. I’d never actually told her I didn’t like it. Having vented my frustration, I felt a little better and started scrolling through a social media app to unwind. Suddenly, a post popped up on my feed. The title was: [I’d walk through a wall for a straight girl, and she calls me a clone sheep.] The smile on my face froze as I read on, especially as my own words echoed in my head: “Do you know Dolly the clone sheep only lived for six years?” The story in the post sounded… eerily familiar. The gist of it was: I wanted to wear matching ‘couple’s outfits’ with my roommate by secretly coordinating our colors every day. But today she suddenly blew up at me and called me a clone sheep. The post ended with a sad, crying emoji. My eyes fixated on the tags at the bottom: #crushingonmyroommate and #lesbian. I fell into a deep, profound silence. I scrolled down to the comments, a stark contrast to my own stunned silence. User1: lol you lesbians falling for straight girls are doomed! User2: OP: Another day, another cute matching outfit with my crush! :) Her Roommate: IF YOU COPY ME AGAIN I WILL END YOU. User120: is this the difference between a straight girl’s brain and a lesbian’s brain? User121: I'm crying, the straight girl would rather think you're a literal clone trying to replace her than realize you just want to wear cute matching outfits. User122: Hey, the app says you're not too far from me. OP, you don't happen to go to Northwood University, do you? Seeing the familiar name of my university, I remembered the app had a location feature. With a sense of impending doom, I clicked on the user’s profile. A tiny line of text, usually insignificant, now filled my entire field of vision: [Distance: 10 ft.] Ten feet. I turned and looked at the back of my roommate, who was sitting at her desk. My brain slowly processed the information. That distance… is about ten feet. 6 After reading the post, I was completely shell-shocked. I quickly memorized the user ID, cleared my browsing history, and then logged into my anonymous burner account to begin a deep dive into her post history. I scrolled all the way back. The very first post was from a year ago, right when the semester started. [Saw the cutest girl today. She’s probably only 5’2”, but she’s so tiny and sweet.] Hmm. I’m 5’3”. Close, but not quite. It’s not me. Moving on. [She’s my roommate! And she was nice enough to offer me a bottle of water. She must think I’m pretty cool, too.] I have no memory of this. Definitely not about me. Moving on. [Wow, she can dance! And she has such a great personality. How can someone be so perfect?] The post was accompanied by a picture of me hosting an on-stage event, my face blurred out. Okay, confirmed. It’s me. The shift in tone seemed to have happened about six months ago, during the university’s track and field meet. [I sprained my ankle today. She offered to help me to the infirmary. She smells so good. Mmm, she said I wasn’t heavy, so maybe I can lean on her a little more… no, better not. I don’t want to tire her out.] I vaguely remembered this. My roommate, Clara, was an art major. She was always quiet and gentle. Because of her major, she was rarely in the dorm. That day, I’d been roped into volunteering for the event to get some required credits. For some reason, she had signed up for the 800-meter race. She’d sprained her ankle during the race, and since no one else was around, it fell to me to help her to the nurse’s office. I remember hurrying over and seeing her sitting on the ground, her forehead beaded with sweat. When I tried to help her up, she resisted. “Don’t touch me,” she’d mumbled. At the time, I thought she really disliked me. “Can you walk on your own if I don’t touch you?” I’d snapped. My tone must have scared her, because she immediately backtracked. “No, it’s just… I’m all sweaty.” I thought she was being ridiculous. So what if she was sweaty? Who doesn’t sweat when they run? I pulled her up. She was clearly in a lot of pain, but she barely put any weight on me. She was trying so hard to be tough, limping along and pretending it didn’t hurt. In my head, I nicknamed her “Iron Woman.” But, out of basic human decency, I said, “You know, you can lean on me. You’re not heavy, and I’m not tired.” “I am leaning on you,” she insisted, and I felt a little more weight on my shoulder. But because she was taller than me, I was mostly just supporting her arm. I noticed her ears were bright red. “Are you hot? Do you want to rest for a minute?” She shook her head vigorously, and I felt the weight on me disappear again. I figured she was just uncomfortable with me helping her, so I didn’t press the issue. And now this post was telling me she didn't lean on me because she was afraid of being too heavy? I kept scrolling. And I found the origin of the “clone sheep” incident. 7 [By chance, we wore the same color today. Someone said we looked like we were wearing couple’s outfits! So happy! (Attached cat-rubbing-its-belly emoji)] That was the first time we’d worn the same color. But it wasn’t by chance at all. I wracked my brain. It was for some university-wide assembly where everyone had to wear the same uniform. Our so-called “matching outfits” were just the standard-issue school shirts. Seriously? This girl’s imagination is working overtime. After that, the posts were almost daily, all documenting our matching color schemes and outfits. [Another day, another couple’s outfit!] [Didn’t have the exact same color, but found something close enough! Wore it!] [She smiled at me today and said we must be kindred spirits!] …And so on, right up until today’s post. After reading everything, a new understanding began to dawn on me. This looks a lot like the diary of a lesbian with a secret crush. I shut my phone off and slowly turned around, only to find myself looking directly into Clara’s eyes. Before she could react, I whipped back around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “…Are you okay?” Clara asked from behind me. I don’t know if it was because of the post or something else, but I could have sworn I heard a note of genuine concern and nervousness in her voice. …It’s all in my head. All in my head. 8 That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I couldn’t reconcile the person in those posts with the quiet, reserved girl I knew. A storm of questions raged in my mind. Is she really that blogger? Is she a lesbian? Does she like… me? I fumbled for my phone in the dark and typed into the search bar: [what to do if my roommate likes me?] [what to do if my roommate is a lesbian?] [how to tell if someone is really a lesbian?] [what do i do if i yelled at the lesbian who likes me?] The search results were a bizarre mix of useless advice. [OP, you’re on your own.] [Easy, just kiss her. If you don’t find it disgusting, you might be one too.] [My advice is probably too graphic for this forum so I’ll just see myself out.] …Utterly, completely unhelpful. I put my phone down, feeling my face grow warm. These internet people were infuriating. I turned over, facing Clara’s side of the room, and finally drifted off to sleep. The next morning, I noticed Clara had deliberately chosen an outfit in a completely different color from mine. “Clara, what’s with the new style? You and Stella aren’t matching today,” another roommate said with a yawn as she climbed down from her bed. “Just felt like a change,” Clara mumbled, her mood clearly low. Even though the clone sheep problem was solved, I felt a strange pang of guilt. From her perspective, she hadn't done anything wrong. All she’d done was like me. “Hey,” I said, grabbing my textbook and catching up to her on the way to class. “I was too harsh yesterday. I’m sorry. Let me buy you lunch today.” “Huh? Oh, okay.” Clara turned, and the surprise and delight in her eyes were impossible to miss. I texted her the time and place for lunch and then spent the entire lecture staring into space. As noon approached, my phone-checking frequency increased to about thirty times a minute. The moment the bell rang, I shot up from my seat, then froze. Wait a second. I’m a straight girl. Why am I so excited? Anyone would think I liked her or something! I deliberately slowed my pace, craning my neck to look for her. Finally, I spotted her.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394094", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel