I found a journal in my own handwriting.
But I never wrote it.
I was cleaning my room when I discovered it under my bed.
The journal was old, weathered, full of pages.
And every single page was in my handwriting.
Every word. Every phrase. Every style.
But the memories described in those pages were not mine.
The handwriting talked about a life I never lived.
A childhood I don't remember.
A family I've never met.
A person I have never been.
I read pages about events that never happened