Chapter 5 005. Tea with a Twist

Leona

It's been five days since Harryson came home.

Five strange days.

At first, I told myself I was just being overly careful. I mean, after everything-the accident, the hospital, the almost losing him part-it made sense to be a little jumpy, right?

But now?

Now I'm starting to think it's not just me.

Something's wrong.

And I don't mean wrong like he's limping or forgetting where the spoons go. No. I mean wrong like... he's someone else. Or at least acting like someone else.

Let me explain.

This morning, I came downstairs to find Harryson already in the kitchen. Dressed. Shaved. Shirt tucked in. Hair combed like he had somewhere important to be.

Except it was Saturday.

He stood at the counter, sipping something from a mug. He didn't say good morning. Just nodded like we were strangers on a bus or something.

"Morning," I said, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

He turned, smiled that too-perfect smile, and held out the mug. "Want some coffee?"

I blinked. "You made coffee?"

"Yeah," he said. "Figured you could use some."

I reached for my cup and took a sip. My face twisted right away. "Ugh. This is strong. Did you forget the sugar?"

He looked confused. "It's black. That's how I drink it."

"No," I said, putting the mug down. "You hate black coffee. Always say it tastes like burnt tires."

He shrugged. "Tastes fine to me now."

I stared at him, trying not to make it obvious I was freaking out a little inside.

Harryson used to drink his coffee with too much cream and three sugars. I used to tease him for it. He'd always laugh and say, "If I wanted to drink motor oil, I'd go work in a garage."

Now he gulps down black coffee like he's done it his whole life.

Weird, right?

But that's not all.

He's too... perfect.

Like, yesterday, he folded all the laundry. Without being asked. And folded it *right*. Even the fitted sheets, which I've never once seen him get right in all the years we've been together.

He's never been this neat.

He's also been showing up exactly on time for everything. Meals, walks, even a video call with his team. On the dot. Like, not a minute late. He's always been organized, sure, but this is... robotic.

Even the way he kisses me feels different.

Not bad. Just... not the same.

It's like he's reading from a script.

Like he knows how to act like Harryson, but he's missing that natural spark. The silly little smirk. The teasing. The warmth behind his eyes.

It's like he's imitating himself.

I haven't said anything yet. I keep telling myself he needs more time. His brain went through a lot. But every time I catch him doing something out of character, I get this cold feeling in my chest.

Last night, we watched a movie. A romantic comedy we've seen a hundred times.

I laughed at the same dumb scene I always do-the one where the guy slips on a banana peel in front of his date and tries to play it cool. I glanced at Harryson, expecting him to laugh too.

He didn't.

He just smiled, like, pleasantly. Politely. Like someone who's pretending to get the joke.

And when I asked him, "You still think it's funny?" he nodded and said, "Of course. It's hilarious."

Only... his face didn't match the words.

It was like he wanted me to believe he was enjoying it, but his eyes were blank.

There's something about his eyes that gets me the most.

They look like Harryson's. Same color. Same shape. But they don't feel the same.

They feel colder.

Sharper.

Smarter in a weird, uncomfortable way.

He looks at me like he's studying me sometimes. Like I'm part of a puzzle he's trying to figure out.

Today, I was cleaning the bookshelf when I found a sticky note tucked inside a book. It had Harryson's handwriting, from before the accident. A little reminder: "Don't forget Leona's favorite flowers: white tulips."

I smiled when I saw it.

But then I remembered-he brought home roses two days ago. Red ones.

I had smiled and thanked him, but now I realize... he forgot. And Harryson never forgot.

Even in the busiest days, when he was juggling cases and paperwork, he always remembered white tulips were my favorite.

The tiniest things are off. Like the way he walks. Straighter, more purposeful. Or how he talks-calm and steady, without the little quirks and pauses that made his voice feel like home.

I miss those quirks.

I miss him.

I don't know how to say it without sounding crazy, but it's like... someone took Harryson's body and filled it with a different soul. Like the man I married is standing in front of me-but he's wearing a mask.

He's more affectionate now, too. Not in a bad way. Just... more.

He hugs me longer. He holds my hand all the time. He kisses my forehead like he's trying to prove something.

He's more attentive. Notices when I'm tired. Makes dinner. Tucks me in when I fall asleep on the couch.

It should feel nice. Romantic even.

But it doesn't.

It feels like he's performing.

Like he's doing what he thinks a good husband should do.

Not because he feels it in his heart, but because it's part of the act.

This morning, I caught myself crying in the shower.

I don't even know why.

Maybe because I'm scared to say it out loud.

Scared that maybe the Harryson I knew didn't come home at all.

That maybe something else did.

---

Later that afternoon, I called his mom. Just to chat. But also... to test something.

She was excited to hear from me, asking how Harryson was doing. I told her he was healing fast.

"He's been acting a bit different," I said gently. "You know... like little things."

"Like what?" she asked, laughing lightly.

"Well, for one," I said, "he drinks black coffee now."

There was a pause.

"Harryson?" she said, surprised. "That boy used to spit it out if it wasn't sweet enough."

"I know," I said, heart sinking. "It's strange."

"Well," she said after a moment. "Maybe it's just the accident. Sometimes, brain injuries do that. Reset things. Make people act differently. Just give it time, sweetie."

"Yeah," I lied. "You're right."

But I didn't believe it.

Because the more I watch him, the more I realize... this isn't just a little change.

It's like someone pressed restart on him.

But not the right version.

A new, cleaner, quieter version.

The kind of version that folds laundry perfectly and remembers every appointment and drinks bitter black coffee like it's no big deal.

And I know I should be grateful.

I mean, he's alive.

He's home.

He's kind, helpful, caring.

So why do I feel like I'm grieving?

Why do I feel like something precious slipped through my fingers the night of that crash?

---

Tonight, I couldn't sleep again.

I got up, walked into the hallway, and saw him sitting downstairs in the dark.

No lights on. Just him, on the couch, staring straight ahead.

I didn't say anything at first.

Just watched him from the stairs.

He sat there, motionless.

Like a statue.

After a few seconds, I whispered, "Harryson?"

He turned his head slowly. "Yeah?".

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he said. "About us."

I walked down. "Can't sleep?"

He shook his head. "Didn't feel like it."

I sat next to him, heart pounding.

"Do you... feel okay?" I asked.

He nodded. "I feel great, actually. Better than ever."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I looked into his eyes again.

Still no warmth.

Still no spark.

Just reflection.

Like I was looking into a pond, not a person.

I smiled weakly. "Okay. Well... let me know if you need anything."

"I will," he said, kissing my cheek.

I went back upstairs, but I didn't sleep.

I lay in bed, listening for footsteps.

Listening for anything.

Because the man who came back from that hospital may look like my husband.

But more and more...

I don't think he is.