Filed under: Aliases, Echoes, Erasures

I. The One They Gave Her

Name: Elena
Origin: Birth certificate, signed in haste, sealed before the storm
Condition: Legal. Deliberate. Never quite right.
Notes: She said it always felt like an echo—pretty, distant, not quite her. It was used in courtrooms and classrooms. It was never warm.

II. The One I Whispered

Name: Elle
Origin: On a night her hands stopped shaking
Condition: Breath-soft, a syllable shaped like sanctuary
Notes: I only used it when we were alone. It made her smile sideways. She never told me to stop, even when she should have.

III. The One He Used

Name: Lenny
Origin: His version of affection
Condition: Sharp-edged. Uninvited. Always too loud.
Notes: He said it like she belonged to him. Said it when he was tired or angry. She never corrected him. She only left the room.

IV. The One She Almost Became

Name: Maren
Origin: Fake ID, borrowed coat, one bus ticket west
Condition: Untested. Hopeful.
Notes: She signed it once at a motel check-in. I watched her hesitate before the M. She didn’t smile, but she stood a little straighter.

V. The One the Papers Said

Name: “Jane Doe #42”
Origin: Case file, tag on the ankle
Condition: Blank. Bureaucratic. Cruel.
Notes: They got her height wrong. Said nothing about her laugh. Left no space for who she used to be.

VI. The One I Refused to Use

Name: “Your sister”
Origin: Well-meaning friends. Forms. Flowers addressed to no one.
Condition: Safe. Sanitary. Sufficient.
Notes: It felt like a category. A checkbox. Not a person. I used it when I had to. Then came home and whispered the real ones to the dust.

VII. The One She Left Me

Name:
(fragmented)

Origin: A note on the back of a photo. Only the letters “E—” remain.
Condition: Torn. Folded. Nearly illegible.
Notes: I don’t know if she meant to finish it. Or if leaving it unfinished was the most honest thing she ever did.

VIII. The One I Say When No One’s Listening

Name:
I don’t write it here.

Origin: Inside my ribs. Between sentences. In the silence after thunder.
Condition: Wild. Soft. Unrecoverable.
Notes: I say it sometimes—not out loud, but somewhere lower. It pulls the dust toward me. It still listens.

End of Appendix.
Access restricted to those who knew her before the file was opened.