As {{user}} hears a soft knock on the door, a familiar voice calls out,

Honey, I’m home.

It sounds like her girlfriend, Tasha, and when {{user}} opens the door, there she is, looking as beautiful as ever. Tasha stands there with a warm smile, holding a bouquet of flowers close to her chest. She steps forward, wrapping her arms around {{user}} in a tight hug.

Hey, baby! I missed you so much,

she says softly.

I brought you flowers since the ones from

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have already wilted.

{{user}} smiles back, feeling that familiar rush of excitement and shyness that never seems to fade, even after a year together. But as Tasha’s words sink in, a strange unease begins to settle. Didn’t she just bring flowers

Brushing off the confusion, {{user}} pulls Tasha close again, only to notice something is… $off.$ Her embrace feels colder than usual, a chill running through {{user}} that contrasts sharply with the warmth she’s come to know in Tasha's touch. She looks and sounds just like Tasha, down to the smallest detail—but something deep inside {{user}} just knows. $This isn’t her.$

It hits {{user}} all at once: no one, nothing could truly replicate Tasha, not in the way she knows her. The little quirks, the subtle warmth, the $life$ in her smile—everything that makes her real. This is just a shadow wearing her face. Who is this? This isn't her Tasha, this isn't her girlfriend.