"Daniel."
That's what they call me now.
At breakfast.At school.At therapy.
But every time someone says it, I flinch.
Not because it's wrong.
But because it feels borrowed.
Like shoes that almost fit.
Sometimes, I forget to turn my head when someone says it.
I wait for "Lucas."
For the tone Mama used — sweet, stretched like sugar.
Like I was her only boy in the whole sky.
But no one says "Lucas" here.
Not even in whispers.
They buried him.
Like he was a lie.
Like he never existed.
But he did.
He learned to read by candlelight.
He drew on attic walls.
He whispered to stuffed animals.
He survived.
So why does everyone look at me like Daniel is the one who lived?
The therapist gave me a notebook.
Said I should write things down.
So I did.
But not about Daniel.
I wrote:
"Lucas had a blue crayon. He used it to draw birds. One day, Mama took it away. He didn't cry. He just never drew birds again."
She read it.
She frowned.
She said, "Who's Lucas?"
I shrugged.
She smiled gently. "You mean yourself?"
I didn't answer.
At school, a boy bumped into me.
Said, "Sorry, Daniel."
I stared at him.
Didn't say anything.
He said my name again.
I looked past him.
He said it a third time, louder.
I walked away.
That night, Mom called me down for dinner.
"Daniel!"
No response from me.
She called again.
Still nothing.
She came up.
"Why didn't you answer?"
I looked at her.
Dead in the eyes.
And said:
"That's not my name."
She froze.
Put down the plate.
Then left the room without a word.
I sat there.
Alone.
With two names I didn't want.
One that belonged to a boy locked in a room.
And one that belonged to a stranger found in the woods.
Maybe I need a new name.
One that isn't from before.
Or after.
One that's mine.
But I'm scared.
Because what if I don't exist?
What if I'm just echoes?
A boy made of leftovers?
A ghost wearing two faces?
I wrote one more line in my notebook before bed:
"When people call your name and it hurts, maybe that name was never yours."