But on A.J. , he messaged someone else: "She doesn't know. Meet me at 9." That night, at the café, Mira sat across from him. Her eyes were soft but tired.

A fresh WhatsApp opened—clean, no chats, no history. He added a burner SIM profile, a virtual number from a texting app, and a profile photo of a sunset he’d never actually watched.

Arjun’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to look. A.J. was getting a reply.

Here’s a short, original story inspired by that title. The Second Self

The clone vanished. The café conversation faded into memory. And for the first time in months, his phone felt light enough to put down. End.