I stared at the photograph every morning, the one of me and Jamie by the lake, our nine-year-old faces split by identical grins. Twins, mirror images, inseparable until that day. The frame was dusty, perched on the mantel of my small apartment, a relic from a life I couldn’t escape. Twenty years later, and the water still lapped at the edges of my mind, cold and insistent.

It started as routine. Coffee brewing, sunlight slanting through the blinds, my eyes drawn to the photo like a moth to flame. Jamie’s arm around my shoulder, his eyes bright with mischief. Mine wary, even then. The lake behind us shimmered in the print, innocent. But I knew what it hid.

The memory was always there, waiting to uncoil. We were playing on the dock, the wood slick from an earlier rain. Jamie, bolder than me, ran ahead, leaping for the buoy like it was a game. ‘Come on, Alex!’ he’d shouted, his voice echoing over the water. I hesitated, feet rooted. He slipped—crack of skull on plank, splash, silence. I dove in, or did I? Grabbed his hair, pulled him up, but too late. Blue lips, vacant eyes. Mom’s screams from the house.

Or was it different? Some nights, in the haze of sleep, I saw my hands on his shoulders, pushing. Jealousy, sharp as a blade— he was the favorite, the brave one. No. That couldn’t be. I tried to save him.

Dr. Ellis said to write it down. ‘Journal the memories, Alex. Pin them like butterflies.’ So I did, in a leather notebook, pages filling with variations. Entry 1: Jamie fell alone. Entry 5: I was closer, reached but missed. Entry 12: A shove, accidental, playful gone wrong. The words blurred, my hand shaking. Was my mind fracturing the truth to cope?

Work suffered. I’m a graphic designer, screens full of pixels I rearrange, but lately, faces in logos twisted into Jamie’s, accusing. Colleagues noticed my distance, the dark circles. ‘You okay, Alex?’ Sarah asked, her concern grating. I nodded, lied. Isolation crept in; phone silent, curtains drawn.

Nights were worse. Dreams where the lake expanded, swallowing the world. Jamie surfaced, water sheeting off his face, whispering, ‘Why, Alex?’ I’d wake gasping, sheets soaked. Once, I found scratches on my arms, thin red lines. Did I do that?

I called Mom. ‘Remember that summer?’ Voice casual, probing.

‘Oh, honey, don’t dwell. Tragic accident.’ Her tone clipped, distant. Dad in background, muttering. They lived two hours away, in the old house by the lake. Maybe a visit would clarify.

The drive was slow-burn torture, trees blurring into green smears, each mile tightening the knot in my gut. Paranoia flickered: what if they blame me still? The house loomed, sagging porch, lake visible through pines. Mom hugged stiffly, Dad avoided eyes.

Dinner was strained, meat dry, conversation skirting the past. ‘Jamie would be proud,’ Mom said, forking peas. Proud of what? My dead-end job? I pressed later, alone with her in kitchen.

‘Tell me exactly what happened. My memories… conflict.’

She paled, hands twisting dishrag. ‘You were there, Alex. Let it go.’ But her eyes darted to the attic stairs.

That night, insomnia gripped. Lake whispered outside window. Crept downstairs, found Dad’s study, drawers rifled for truth. Old albums, but Jamie’s photos fewer after that summer. One snapshot: us on dock, but Jamie’s smile forced, my hand blurred near his back.

Attic next dawn, while they slept. Boxes labeled ‘Boys.’ Toys, report cards—mine A’s, Jamie’s B’s. A lockbox, key in lock. Inside: hospital records, yellowed. ‘Alexander Grant, deceased July 15, 1994. Drowning. Twin brother James witnessed.’

Heart hammered. No. Mistake. Kept reading: ‘James exhibits signs of acute trauma, identity confusion. Recommended therapy.’ Notes from shrinks: ‘Patient insists he is Alexander. Dissociation severe.’

Photos clipped: me—no, Jamie—with a small scar on left cheek from chickenpox. Mirror in attic grimy; wiped, stared. There it was, faint white line. I’d always thought it from a bike fall.

Mom’s voice downstairs, Dad arguing. Burst in, records waving. ‘Who am I?’

Silence. Mom wept. ‘Jamie… we thought it best. After you… pushed Alex. Accident, but police… We said you were Alex, sent him away—no, Alex died. You swam out, pulled him too late? No, you fought, he hit head. To protect you, we buried it as accident, you became Alex. Therapy buried deeper.’

Dad: ‘You refused to be Jamie. Insisted Alex saved you, but truth: you envied him, shoved in rage. We covered for our boy.’

World tilted. Memories rewrote: I—no, Jamie—hated Alex’s perfection. Pushed hard. Body sank, guilt swallowed identity. Twenty years living lie, memories hiding murderer.

Now, truth cracked shell. Lake called, real this time. Walked to dock, water black. ‘Jamie,’ whispered wind. Stepped forward, no hesitation. Splash, cold embrace. This time, no twin to save or kill. Just truth, pulling under