Flash Fiction about a man who just wants to be seen…
Death is only supposed to happen once.
A bridesmaid’s promise is not easily forgotten.
“That’s not my Blake.” Dr. Feldstein looked at me over the top of his glasses. His voice was deep and gravely, “I understand why you see Blake as an imposter. It is how your brain is coping with such a traumatic event.” He paused, looking at me with concern.
I opened my mailbox today to find a red envelope. There was no address nor return address, only my name neatly printed on the front. I enthusiastically ripped the paper, praying to any god who would listen that it was a Valentine from Josh.