He looked at her but she ignored his adoration.


“I’m not interested” she muttered, barely audible but to the cushion that she held in a tight grip as she sat, knees up in front of her, feet marking the white cloth of the sofa.

“Please. We need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to say. I can’t believe what you wrote. And after you’d told me..”

“What do you mean, what I wrote? I haven’t written anything.”

She said nothing, to start with, but then pulled the journal out from under the cushion and handed it to him.


He took the book and looked at its battered cover. Certainly, it looked like it was his writing. Opening the pages – well, as far as he knew it was his. A record of a mundane life. Hardly anything to get worked up about.

“Look at your last entries”

He flicked the pages towards the middle of the book. He hadn’t bothered to keep the journal for a couple of years. Nothing to write about, at least nothing that he wanted to remind himself about. As he turned over the last couple of pages – this couldn’t be right – the dates were last week. It looked as though it was his writing but he’d not even seen the book since they’d moved into the flat together, and that was a year ago. But yet it seemed as though he’d written..

“Go on. Read it. Bastard.”

The final entry was written exactly one week earlier. As his eyes scanned the hastily written text, a sickness filled his stomach and his vision blurred.

“I.. I didn’t write this.


She tore the book from his hands and threw it to the floor. “Of course you didn’t. Someone broke and forged it for you. What the hell did you mean by that. Tell me.”

“I can’t”


“But I didn’t write it”

“You make me sick”.

The journal had falled open on the final pages, and his eyes scanned once again the impossible words that were in front of him.

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